


in the next life, they'll remember me

by Crossley



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Continuation, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Gun Violence, Hallucinations, Hallucinogens, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Modern Fódlan, Political Thriller, Post-Blue Lions Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Spoilers for Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Stoner Byleth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:27:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21614554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossley/pseuds/Crossley
Summary: "You don’t exist. You are an audiovisual hallucination of what is probably my subconscious telling me to stop wasting my life.”Sothis pouts. “Your past self believed I was real.”“My past self didn’t have access to WebMD,” Byleth replies.850 years post-Azure Moon, a college student drops acid, sees the past, and meets a goddess. She believes it's in her head until three familiar faces appear on her doorstep. (Or, "the modern dark reincarnation stoner!Byleth-and-Sothis buddy comedy not-an-AU to prevent the lords from having a bad time at Coachella and acquiring nuclear weapons.")Previously titled "you know me as the girl who plays with fire."
Relationships: Claude von Riegan & My Unit | Byleth, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth, Edelgard von Hresvelg & My Unit | Byleth
Comments: 189
Kudos: 371





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer #1: Fire Emblem doesn't belong to me.  
> Disclaimer #2: Please follow the laws of your jurisdiction with regards to mind-altering substances and use responsibly. You aren't the living reincarnation of a progenitor god so drugs won't work this way for you.
> 
> Warnings: Very liberal drug use/drug dependency, ableist language. Future chapters will include violence (including gun violence), verbal/emotional abuse, and mental health issues. I strongly anticipate this will be rated E before it's over. Warnings will be updated as the story evolves. Please let me know in the comments if additional tags need to be added.
> 
> Old title from Grimes's [My Name is Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fq1fW-jIRms). New title from Kim Petras's [In the Next Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kilftdzgrM).

When she pops the tab on her tongue, she expects curving lines, colors from sound. That’s what she read on the message boards. That, or maybe the Goddess will give her some big revelation, but she’s pretty indifferent to religion. She’s not a very creative person, so she doesn’t expect much.

What she gets is a fiery field in Gronder, medieval nations clashing with sword and lance, and a one-eyed demon yelling, “Kill every last one of them!”

Most people would have called that a bad first trip, but she’s not most people. She’s a little...detached, to put it nicely. A stone bitch, to put it less nicely. The novelty of the experience outweighs the bad parts.

So she does it again, and she’s back in the battlefield, only this time a green-eyed rogue stands next to her and murmurs sadly about class reunions. Again, and she is back-to-back with a snow-haired revolutionary, ready to burn down the old order. After that, she writes down everything she can remember after and starts searching online. It sends her down a wikihole about the War of the Three Houses of Fódlan, back during medieval times. She vaguely remembers learning about in school, but secondary education was pretty slapdash with her dad’s constant travel, and even if she was born in Fódlan, she’s lived most her life off the continent.

Then she does it again, and again. She tries different combinations. Shrooms tend to take her back earlier, when the future lords and generals of the war are students at an academy. Some strains of pot mixed in will show her quiet interludes, conversations and tiny intimacies; others will launch her mid-battle with a cool-looking glowy sword. For kicks, she adds a fencing class to her schedule for the next semester. 

If she’s honest, it’s not healthy. She’s no social butterfly, but spending multiple nights a week on hallucinogens is definitely a step backwards. Still, she keeps her head on straight: her grades don’t suffer, she holds down her teaching job at the dojo, and she still FaceTimes her dad once a week. There are no memory gaps, no delusions of grandeur, no lack of emotional affect (not that she had an emotional affect to lack). She still knows the difference between reality and her imagination and she figures that’s good enough.

Then one evening she’s in a tomb with a glowing green girl, who wakes up and peers at her. “Oh,” the glowing green girl asks, “and who might you be?”

She answers without thinking. “Byleth.”

Glowing green girl shakes her head. “I think not.” Glowing green girl is right, but here, now, that answer feels more correct than the name on her driver’s license. Familiar. “Yet perhaps that was your name, once. Perhaps you have had many names. I have two. My name is Sothis, but I am also called the Beginning.”

Byleth’s mind screeches to a halt, because she doesn’t live under a rock and knows damn well who Sothis is. So now she’s having to google the Church of Seiros to explain to the glowing green girl that she shares her name with the Fódlanese progenitor god and that’s not okay, because as far as Byleth knows, the only people who have one-on-ones with their creators are people who already religious or who are losing their shit. 

The panic doesn’t really get going until the next morning, though, when the drugs have worn off and Sothis is still there.

* * *

“Why do you ignore me?” Sothis asks during Byleth’s econ midterm. “I have feelings, you know, and you are hurting mine.”

It’s not hearing voices that makes you crazy, Byleth reasons. It’s when you talk back that the problems start.

* * *

The problem with noise-canceling headphones is they don’t work when the yelling and pot-banging comes from inside your own head. Especially while trying to finish her final paper.

“PAY ATTENTION TO ME!” Sothis screams as she plays bongos with Byleth’s cooking pans.

Byleth loses it. “Shut up, Sothis! You don’t exist.”

 _Crap_.

“HA!” Sothis jumps up and down, fist-pumping triumphantly. “You acknowledged me!”

* * *

“It is very rude of you,” Sothis says, while Byleth binges the first season of _The Game of Houses_ , “to continue to act as if I do not exist, when I am very much here.”

Byleth doesn’t bother to look at her. “That’s because you don’t exist. You are an audiovisual hallucination of what is probably my subconscious telling me to stop wasting my life.”

Sothis pouts. “Your past self believed I was real.”

“My past self didn’t have access to WebMD,” Byleth replies. She starts the next episode.

* * *

She does not stop the drugs. 

* * *

She does, however, get used to having Sothis around. Turns out the hallucinated manifestation of her subconscious is...decent company. Kinda.

(But she still doesn’t exist.)

* * *

It becomes a routine: when Byleth has a free night, she pops a tab and lets the fake memories carry her to the past. Sothis turns out to be a pretty good companion on these deep dives through her fake memories, providing her own insights and helping preserve details for her. Byleth fills trip diaries with observations, sketches key players, and pins up critical information on the wall of her bedroom. It grows like an eldritch being, a labyrinthine network of past lives and loves. 

Sothis takes to calling it the Pepe Silvia Board after they got stoned and marathoned _It’s Always Sunny in Fhirdiad_. She laughs harder at the jokes than Byleth’s ever laughed at anything in her life, and Byleth envies how _loose_ Sothis is. She wishes she were that way too.

 _You_ are _that way_ , her conscious mind reminds her, _because Sothis isn’t real. Go outside._

* * *

“That was terrible,” Sothis says, arms crossed, as the credits roll on the shocking season finale of _Game of Houses._

“How so?” Byleth asks. _Game of Houses_ ’ first season has been hailed a new cultural landmark and nominated for a record number of Victors. Personally, she's riveted by all the subversive twists, but the Dimitri/Edelgard secret relationship plotline makes her queasy. 

Sothis scowls. “For starters, I’m nowhere in it.”

* * *

Byleth breaks down the dreams into four branching paths, with four key players: Dimitri Alexandre Blayddid (the Savior King), Edelgard von Hresvelg (the Flame Emperor), Claude von Riegan (the Master Tactician, later Khalid VI of Almyra), and Archbishop Rhea (the Immaculate One). Only one of the trip-paths, the one where the Savior King united Fódlan, looks anything like what’s in the history books; the other three appear to be alternate histories where different factions won. 

All four shadows still loom large over Fódlan, the war a flashpoint in history, their mark indelible nearly a millennium later. Countless historical analyses and fanfic have speculated on what would have happened had another house won the day instead, and now the answers play out in drugged-out dreams. Some elements are always the same: the school year missions, Edelgard striking first, crossing the Old Myrddin Bridge. Dimitri always has a psychotic break, which draws the armchair psychologists and the hurt/comfort fic writers in droves. The biggest variable appears to be—

“You,” Sothis interjects.

“Archbishop Eisner, their former professor,” Byleth corrects her. 

And the Queen of Old United Fódlan, but Byleth’s not sure what to make of the hot, sparking thing in her chest every time she’s tripping the Savior King’s path, especially with all of Sothis’s nonsense about reincarnation and past selves. There’s just...a lot to unpack there, because Archbishop Eisner really did marry the Savior King. If she’s here, bumming around Morfis, trying to finish school, does that mean he’s out there too? Is he waiting for her? Does he get seasick watching that nonsense on _Game of Houses_? Does he ever troll the discussion boards to find out how many people online agree that Professor Eisner and Prince Dimitri are endgame? (Not many. The actors have zero chemistry. She sees more fic pairing him with Dedue. The Sylvix tag is pretty great reading, though.)

Byleth makes a note to mix in some molly on one of these trips. Or maybe open a dating app and meet a real person. Clearly it’s been too long since she’s gotten laid.

* * *

Sometimes she wakes up in the middle of the night and her chest is heavy because she killed every last one of them at least once. She’s grown so fond of them, these charming figments of her imagination, and their not-so-ragtag bands of misfits. If she had a properly functioning heart, it would break each time she discovers yet another has been reduced to a historical footnote. She’s getting too attached to the friends in her mind, the ones she’s never found in her day-to-day life.

Also, her versions are way hotter than the actors playing them on _Game of Houses_. Like, _damn_. Byleth gives her imagination a pat on the head for doing such a good job in the casting department.

(Except Lorenz. Trip!Lorenz is not bad once he grows out his hair, but Show!Lorenz is a snacc.)

* * *

“Why are you doing all of this? What is your plan?” Sothis asks one day as Byleth pins up another sketch she finished of the Battle at Gronder.

Byleth’s never considered it. There’s never been a point to her trips. She’s never thought of herself as someone with a good imagination. That’s why she tried hallucinogens in the first place, and fell into this wormhole.

“I want to know how it ends,” Byleth tells Sothis, and Sothis seems satisfied with her answer.

* * *

For a goddess-shaped manifestation of Byleth’s subconscious, Sothis is petty as hell. She screeches like a toddler when she doesn’t get her way, which can be anything from food choices (“no we can’t have truffle oil fries every night, Sothis, I'm broke and I teach martial arts for a living”) to Byleth’s Spotify playlist. 

She begs Byleth to buy tickets for Stella Blake’s concert (“‘Eagle Eye’ is a bop,” Sothis insists, and Byleth can’t argue with that logic), and pushes Byleth take Introduction to Magibiology, where Byleth learns she’s got an aptitude for dissonant energy manipulation (“they used to call it reason magic; why the name change?”). Byleth ends up changing majors as Sothis teaches her simple spells; she’s better than YouTube, certainly.

Also there’s a lecture series on quantum theory and multiverses by Dr. Essar that Sothis demands they attend. Byleth’s having enough trouble with her new major and her dream timelines to pay much attention, so she doodles while Dr. Essar drones. Sothis brings popcorn.

* * *

And it's fine. She's fine. She doesn't need more, but the multiverse still hits her like a Thoron bolt.

It starts with her dad accepting a job back on Fódlan. He’s always been cagey about working with Fódlanese organizations, especially the United Fódlan Armed Forces, preferring contracts in Dagda, Morfis, and Albinea, but he gets an offer they can’t refuse for a job in Charon. Byleth finishes her degree in Morfis and crashes at her dad’s condo in Remire while she works on grad school applications.

It’s past midnight on a Friday during Horsebow Moon when the doorbell rings. Her dad’s passed out on the couch after they watched a boxing match. She ignores the bell, thinking it’s probably a murderer, but they kept ringing repeatedly, so she grabs her dad’s sidearm to make them go away.

(“Wait,” Sothis asks, “you think it’s a murderer, but you’re going to open the door because they’re...really persistent?” Byleth ignores her, because Sothis does not exist.)

So Byleth opens the door.

Then shuts it, because that's got to be the drugs.

Then remembers she didn’t take anything today, and opens it again.

Prince Charming, Miss Perfect, and Peak Fuckboy are standing on her porch in obvious distress, looking like they’ve hit the rough part of a _really_ awesome night.

It’s them, but that makes zero sense, because she’s supposed to be throwing her life away and his eyes are still that same summer blue as they are in her dreams and she’s still as small and steely as she was when they stood side by side and killed the gods and he’s still kind beneath that mischievous sparkle that kisses his mouth and _you found me_ and _I’ve waited so long to walk with you again_ and _you're not supposed to be real_ —

—Byleth slams the door shut, Sothis cackling in the background.

What. 

The. 

_Fuck._

She gulps for air. She’s cold-blooded, right? Back when she worked with her dad, they called her _ashen demon_ after she set that orphanage on fire. (In her defense, the orphans had it coming.)

“It seems fate has come knocking,” Sothis says with an _enormous_ shit-eating grin, “literally. You best answer promptly.” Then she dissolves back into helpless giggling.

“Shut up Sothis, you don’t exist,” Byleth retorts, but...yeah, she might have to retire that one permanently.

A soft knock, and the sinking realization that once again, Sothis is right.

With a deep breath and a calm she does not feel, Byleth opens the door and invites fate inside.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dad! We're taking the rocket launcher to raid a Bratva safehouse. Do you want me to drop by the store after?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: References to gun use. Ongoing warnings about responsible drug use remain in effect.

She never looked.

Of course she thought about it. If—and only if—Sothis had the right of it, then they were all out there. It wouldn’t have been hard to find them. Not in a world where every move, every choice, every passing thought is dutifully collected and sold to the highest bidder. Certainly not in a world where that’s her dad’s stock and trade.

_She never looked._

Not because she hadn’t been tempted. She’d never thought of herself as lonely until Sothis set up camp inside her head, and while it was easier to stick with the friends she made along her trips, it made her keenly aware of what she was missing.

So she never looked, no matter how many times Sothis called her a coward.

She never looked because looking had only two outcomes. One: they weren’t out there, and it was all in her head, and she really was deluded. Two: they were out there, and they missed her too, and that was _worse_.

* * *

Instead they found her. (Again.)

Or did they? She’s not sure. This could still be a big hallucination. Maybe some extra chemicals knocked loose and she’s high as balls right now. That would be the best outcome.

“We’re very sorry about this,” Miss Perfect says, smile gleaming pageant-bright, “but we have a situation, and were told that a Gerry MacGowan might be able to help us. Is he here at the moment?”

Prince Charming hangs back behind Miss Perfect and Peak Fuckboy, gaze averted from her. The acid trips did not do him justice. His hair’s slicked back, or was at some point in the night. She thinks he might be even taller, and the slight snaggletooth he’d sported has been erased by modern orthodontia. 

He’s different; she’s different. They’re all different.

Would her brain be clever enough to change small details like those, throw her off its scent? Byleth forces herself to look back at her snoring dad. He's still cradling an empty fifth of whiskey. “Define ‘here.’”

“Physically present and available to assist us in an urgent matter,” Miss Perfect replies with only the slightest crack in her face, tossing her light brown hair. 

White roots, if you look close, but they’re expertly blended. Much better than the overgrown minty-fresh sink job hanging off Byleth’s head right now. She's got some color in her skin, and her cheeks are fuller. She looks so _healthy_ that Byleth's eyes sting. “Define ‘available.’”

Miss Perfect scowls, and Sothis snort-giggles.

Peak Fuckboy steps up with a billion-dollar grin. He looks the most similar, though the eyes are more hazel than pure green, the braid is gone, and his beard’s fuller. “We’re really sorry about this, ma’am. If this isn’t Gerry MacGowan’s place, we can figure something else out. Could we maybe at least borrow a phone to call a ride?”

Hell no she’s not giving ~~Claude~~ Peak Fuckboy her phone. It’ll smash on the pavement because she’s clearly done way too many drugs and this is her brain taking revenge on her for all the chemicals she’s force-fed it over the years. Since they’re imaginary and therefore no threat to her, she waves them into the hall.

Byleth kicks the couch. “Dad!”

He grumbles. “Ugh. I’m up, kid. What’s going on?”

“Do you see those three people in the hallway?”

Dad glances over, then back at her. “Why are you letting random people in our house? They could be murderers.”

He sees them too. Something green and fragile inside her sprouts. Something else dies.

“They’re not murderers,” Byleth says. Probably not. Or at least not the kind they have to worry about. Besides, even drunk-off-his-ass-Dad and Byleth could kill murderers much, much faster than murderers could kill them. But they’re not just misfiring synapses; that's what matters. “They came here looking for you. Do you know them?”

“I know trouble when I see it.” He sits up, blinking blearily, and stumbles into the hallway. “I’m Gerry MacGowan. What’s all this about?”

“Please forgive the late intrusion,” Prince Charming says, running a hand through his hair, “but we’re in need of immediate assistance on a rather delicate matter. You see, while we were out to dinner, we were accosted by members of the press and separated from our security details. While trying to reconnect with them, our phones were stolen.”

“Paparazzi and security details?” Sothis strokes her chin. “It seems they’re still at the upper echelons of society. Do they seem familiar to you, outside of the trips? I wonder how they lost their bodyguards?”

 _They kinda do_ , Byleth admits, _and no, you don’t just misplace your security detail. They slipped their handlers._

Dad’s as skeptical as she is. “You want to hire me to...get your phones back? You know it’d be easier and cheaper to remote wipe and buy fresh ones, right?”

Miss Perfect flushes delicately. “We’re aware of how petty it sounds, but the phones have military-grade magicryption, which would take several hours for even an expert to crack. Some of the data on those phones could affect the security of several nations,” she adds. “Time is of the essence.”

“Yeah, I’m also worried about my nudes,” Peak Fuckboy says with a wry grin. Miss Perfect glares at him, and Sothis chortles.

Dad looks at her with his best ‘done-with-this-shit’ face. “Soph?”

“On it,” Byleth replies, already texting their surveillance team to pull nearby cam footage.

“Good.” He looks back at the trio. “This is Soph,” Dad says. “She’s the best damn thing I ever did with my life, so I’m charging my full hourly rate plus the rush fee for her services. You look like your parents can afford it.”

As Dad heads upstairs, all three of their faces fall. “Oof,” Sothis says, floating over Prince Charming’s head. His facade takes the longest to reconstruct.

Meanwhile she’s busy doing what she does, sending out inquiries, reviewing the immediate hits she gets from the 24-hour team at Dad’s Dagda office. She gestures vaguely to the couch. “Do you want to sit? This will take a few minutes.”

Peak Fuckboy takes the offer first, and while he saunters over, she senses he’s using the opportunity to inspect the room. Miss Perfect sits on the edge of the seat and honestly, Byleth doesn’t blame her. Prince Charming lingers at her side. “Soph,” he says. He speaks slower, softer than the voice in her dreams. “Is that what Mr. MacGowan said your name was?”

Byleth bites her tongue. “Sophia,” she replies. “My full name is Sophia. But I usually go by Soph.”

It’s not healthy, not right, that her own name feels wrong on her tongue. She is not the Byleth they knew; that Byleth was flatter, smoother, like a polished stone. Soph might have sunken into Byleth like a boulder in the ocean, but Byleth’s still living in Soph’s world, and she’s still got Soph’s spikes and Soph’s damage to show for it. 

“Sophia,” he says, closing his eyes as if to taste the name on his tongue. “Well, despite the circumstances, truly it is a pleasure to meet you, Sophia. My name is...Alex.”

 _Alex_ , she commits to memory, because she can’t let herself think of him any other way. She knows _Dimitri_. (Mostly. There are gaps. Like she knows Rodrigue died, and then Dimitri was better, but did something happen between?) _Alex_ is a stranger wearing his face.

“Trying to slide in before I get a crack, Alex? I didn’t know you had it in you,” Peak Fuckboy says, smiling. “I’m Nader. Pleased to meet you.” Smooth, easy. He tosses her a two-fingered mock-salute. She doesn’t need to have known Claude to be certain Nader is not what he seems. That’s oddly comforting.

“Ignore their antics,” Miss Perfect advises, but her gaze is fond. “I’m Eleanor. You may call me Ellie, if I can call you Soph.” 

Ellie feels warmer, looser than Edelgard, and that would make her more dangerous, not less. “Sure,” Byleth says before turning back to her phone.

Sothis sits on the couch next to Ellie, her eyebrows raised. “No last names.”

_We can still perform background checks with facial recognition and first names. Also, I told you not to bug me at work._

“Surely you cannot expect me to be silent now, of all times!” Sothis laughs. “History repeating itself, no less. Although a simple phone theft seems far less urgent than an assassination attempt.”

 _History repeating itself._ Byleth swallows the bile threatening to spew. Sothis realizes what she just said and her eyes widen in horror.

* * *

She never looked because this world is different. She’s different, and that means they’re different too. They have different histories, different topography; they have two lifetimes’ worth of landmines buried beneath their skin. There’s no guarantee they would love each other in this life.

There’s no guarantee they won’t hate each other in this life, either. 

Byleth spent her childhood in modern war zones; she’s seen devastation that makes hero’s relics look like children’s toys, and makes javelins of light downright mundane. If death is an art, then these three were masters of the craft, and the thought of these three with the modern instruments of war at their fingertips makes her woozy.

Does he still he hear the voices of the dead?

Does she still thirst for revolution?

Does he still play the trickster to hide his big dreams?

_What would their war look like in an age of annihilation?_

* * *

“Take a look at this.” She hands her phone to Alex, who is still standing next to her, watching her work as if transfixed. She's not sure what's so interesting about watching her comb through video surveillance footage, but whatever. “Can you forward the video to around the time the theft happened?”

He stares at her phone as if it were contagious. “Nader, if you could?” he asks, looking sheepish.

“Happy to help, Your Princeliness,” Nader says, and it roots Byleth in the spot. “Hey, Sophie? The phone?”

Right. She hands it over mutely. 

“I break phones easily,” Alex explains with a rueful smile.

“I once saw Alex just pick up a phone and it exploded,” Nader says, grinning. “Literally exploded. There was fire.”

“Well that’s one way to secure your data,” Byleth says dryly. Nader laughs outright; Alex and Ellie chuckle. Alex flushes and Ellie studies her, curious.

“Here,” Nader says, and Byleth’s glad she has so much practice being indifferent when she sees the thief. Byleth recognizes him vaguely, calls him _Kostas_ , but the part of her brain sounding alarms is pure Soph.

Konstantin Lazarenko, Pakhan for the Garreg Mach branch of the Sreng Bratva. What in the fresh hell is a Sreng mob boss doing stealing cell phones like a petty thief? “You’re all pretty important, right?” Byleth asks. They look at one another, nervous. “Can you get me out of a _lot_ of legal trouble?”

Their eyes widen simultaneously. Alex and Nader both look at Ellie, who looks at Nader, before Nader and Ellie turn back to Alex. He nods at both of them. So that’s how the power rankings go. She files that away for later. “What sort of legal trouble are you currently experiencing?” Alex asks.

“Ask me after I’ve got your phones back,” she says. Facing upstairs, she yells, “Dad! We're taking the rocket launcher to raid a Bratva safehouse. Do you want me to drop by the store after?”

“Goddess _damn_ it, Soph!” She hears a loud thump, some cursing, and a glass bottle breaking. “Give me ten and I’ll suit up. Do not touch the rocket launcher. And don’t you dare take those spoiled little shits anywhere near a motherfucking Bratva safehouse!”

There, that should get his ass moving. She turns back to her very shocked charges.

“You want to raid a Bratva safehouse?”

“Why do you own a rocket launcher?”

“Who _are_ you people? And I'm not _that_ spoiled.”

She motions them to the dining room, their makeshift armory. “My dad’s the founder of the MacGowan Group,” she explains. “It’s a security and risk-management firm that works closely with military and paramilitary organizations, although he wants to expand into the private sector. He tagged me in, so I’m getting your phones back.”

All three are surprised, but Nader’s the greenest around the gills. “So you and your father are...mercenaries?”

“We prefer the term ‘private military contractors,’” Byleth quips. “Have any of you ever fired a gun?”

* * *

The answer is yes and then some, which doesn’t surprise Byleth. Dad always says the best way to keep a high-value asset safe is to teach them to defend themselves. Whoever’s in charge of keeping these three safe took that to its extreme.

All three pick up automatic pistols and combat knives with the ease of army veterans. Ellie nabs a bolt-action shotgun and holds it with the same ease Edelgard once wielded Amyr. Nader’s hand drifts over an anti-materiel sniper rifle, way too much firepower for their little jaunt, but she lets him take it anyway along with a lighter sub-machine gun. Claude always preferred to keep his distance from killing. The assault rifle Alex picks up can clear a room faster than anything else on the table, but the recoil cracks ribs. Hers hurt just seeing it in his hands, remembering a bloodshot eye in a blood-soaked field.

Dad comes down in full tactical gear, and his face goes dark. “Absolutely not,” he growls at her. “We’re not letting the brats play commando.”

“Catch,” Byleth replies as she tosses her dad her phone. He catches it, and studies the frame Byleth screencapped of Konstantin.

“You sure about this?”

She nods. His eyes are hard, and she knows he’s evaluating the request she typed into the text box below.

 _Pegasus_.

He deletes the word and gives her a short, jerky nod. No questions asked. Her chest is warm and tight. Byleth loves him.

“All right, kid,” Dad says. “Let’s head out.”

* * *

Everything is different when the world can end with the push of a button.

Already she thinks she could love them.

(That doesn’t mean she trusts them.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time on Whatever This Is: The best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry. This plan was mediocre if you squinted.
> 
> Note: I struggled with the decision to give the characters' future selves new names, but ultimately moved forward with it, as the characters have lived very different lives in New United Fodlan, may or may not have fresh trauma, may or may not remember part or all of their past lives, may or may not have learned from their past/present mistakes, may or may not have gotten therapy, and may or may not have listened to their therapists. Byleth isn't going to be only one who has a lot of feelings about who they were versus who they are. Relationships between characters in 2027 (the current year in-story) may also be very different from their original 1180 counterparts. Having said that, I'm committed to keeping the characters' core personalities intact, and there will still be plenty of stoner!Byleth and Sothis's buddy dramedy and other modern-day shenanigans. I will be keeping the names of the other 2027 students close to their 1180 names. Future chapters will reveal in more detail what has changed since 1186.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos and comments so far. I've been a little insecure about this concept, so they've been a HUGE motivator for me to keep going. Please keep them coming and share this with others!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a terrible plan. She can feel Sothis judging her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gun violence. Non-essential character death. One gendered slur. Ongoing warnings about drug use and drug dependency remain in effect.
> 
> Notes: The coming attractions I mentioned in last chapter's notes have been pushed back because I wrote this mission out proper-like, and had to split it into two parts. (Did I write a modern FE fic because I'd rather write gun fights than sword fights? Maybe!) Today you get mostly badass!Byleth. Don't worry, stoner!Byleth and Sothis will be back with a vengeance soon enough, and how the two coexist will be addressed in future chapters.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has left kudos and comments. They're amazing incentive to keep pushing myself on this story.

“So...do we know where we’re going?”

Byleth looks back at her clients. They’re wedged uncomfortably in the back seat of Dad’s MBS G63 SUV, fresh from the shop after he’d had full-plate anti-magic shielding installed. He’d insisted despite having a much roomier (and more innocuous) minivan parked in the garage. When Byleth tried to argue, Dad raised an eyebrow and mouthed _Pegasus_. Figures he'd want to play with his new toy in exchange for indulging her dangerous whim. It's a little flashier than she would've preferred on approach, but fine otherwise. She can improvise. She'll need to do a lot of improving to survive this mission.

“We have a few possibilities, but the last signals from your phones were from cell towers in the SoRem district,” Dad says. “Most likely candidate is a warehouse for a restaurant supply company owned by a shell corporation we traced back to Bratva leadership. It’s one of their biggest money laundering ventures besides Bolganone and Luna.”

“Wait.” Alex’s brow furrows. “Bolganone the restaurant?”

“Surprised that a place as swanky as Bolganone is a Bratva front? They’ve also got a small fleet of laundromats and car washes.”

Alex shakes his head. “It’s not that. We started the night at Bolganone before heading to Luna, where our phones were stolen.”

Byleth exchanges looks with her dad while he’s stopped at a traffic light. Her fingers itch to google all three of them, but she can feel Ellie’s eyes on her. Sharp as ever, that one. “Interesting,” Dad says, with deliberate nonchalance. “Whose idea was that?”

Surprisingly, Ellie flushes a soft pink. “Bolganone was my suggestion,” she admits. “I’d heard the food and the dining experience are sublime. But Nader was the one who actually made the reservation, and he suggested going to Luna afterwards,” Ellie adds, her gaze shifting towards Nader.

Nader shrugs playfully. His face is all smiles but his eyes are flinty. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted a ‘leadership dinner’ at a three-Molinaro star restaurant with a day's notice; I’m just the guy who knows how to make it happen. Besides, if we’re dealing with Bratva, that’s Alex’s territory.”

“Me?” Alex wrinkles his nose. “I have nothing to do with criminals.”

“But you have plenty to do with the Sreng territories, _Your Princeliness_ ,” Nader says, tone sharpened to needlepoint.

There’s a flash of something darkly familiar in Alex’s eyes, but it’s gone before Byleth can place it. He leans his head against the window. Nader and Ellie watch him intently.

Dad lets out a long sigh. He’s putting the same pieces together she is. “Before we arrive,” Dad begins, changing the subject, “I need a number from the three of you. How much could you offer Laz to return your phones without setting off any alarms?”

“Laz?” Ellie cocks her head sideways, studying them both. “You sound as if you know this miscreant.”

Dad grumbles. “We’ve got some history, yeah. Not the biggest turd the Bratva’s ever crapped out, so there’s a chance he’ll be reasonable.”

“History?” Nader’s eyes gleam green in the dim light. Still a gossip. “With a Bratva Pakhan? You get more and more interesting, Sophie. Care to spill the tea?”

Byleth weighs her possible responses and decides to throw them a bone. “He tried to kidnap me once.”

All three of their eyes widen and mouths drop simultaneously. It’d be comical if her nerves weren’t keyed to a dog’s ear pitch.

“And?” Nader prompts, drawing out the word. He’s practically rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

“It didn’t take,” Byleth replies. “Give us a number and maybe I’ll tell you the rest.”

After a few minutes of whispering and poking one another, Ellie hands Byleth a slip of paper with a figure that could pay off her student loans, the Remire condo mortgage, and the MacGowan Group’s entire business line of credit. Thrice. Even Dad’s eyebrows rise subtly at the final figure. “And this is liquid?” Dad asks.

A brief pause. “I’ll have to make a couple calls, but yeah, I can wire this to anyone within an hour. These two can pay me back their shares later.” He grins at Ellie and Alex. “Besides, now they’ll owe me a favor.” Byleth can feel Ellie’s exasperation. Alex thumps his head on the glass.

“Fine.” Dad finishes parking the car, and Byleth quickly disembarks, checking her gear. “There’s a burner phone in the glove compartment. Go ahead and make that call right now. You’ve got time.”

“We do?” Nader asks, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He pulls on his car door latch, but it’s locked fast. “Hey, I think you forgot to disengage the child door locks.”

Dad smirks. “Oh I didn’t forget anything. Me and Soph are going in alone,” he says, glass smooth. “you kids are staying in the car.” He slams his door shut and engages the front door locks as the interior explodes with yelling, pounding, and yanking sounds. 

Byleth almost feels guilty about playing them. It had been easier to secure their cooperation if they believed they were coming along, but even with their training, her dad is right. It's 2027, not 1180. They can't afford to have rich civilians playing commandos on a real job, much less one this sloppy. (Besides, they could always pay for the "commando experience" later. Babysitting rich idiots through fake missions is one of Dad's steadiest revenue streams.)

As Byleth and her dad walk through the alleyways to the warehouse, they make sure to keep out of public sight and known surveillance spots. “Me in the front, you in the back?” Negotiating isn't her wheelhouse, but she's pulled her share of miracles out of her ass.

“Not this time.” Dad checks his pistol. “Laz doesn’t have very fond memories of you. I’m gonna parley while you search the premises. If you can get the phones, grab them and get out.”

“If I do that, we can’t guarantee he’ll honor any agreement you make,” Byleth argues. “And he definitely won’t destroy any copies he made of the data.”

“Sure he will. Even a Pakhan’s accountable to someone, and he won’t want to get caught with his ass out.” Dad grins at her, a little cocky. She comes by that honest. “And besides, magicrypted, right? The chance they've already broken into those phones without the owners casting the correct resonant energy signature is close to zero, and that’s only if Laz has a magicryption hacker on speed dial.”

She can practically hear the argument with Sothis starting up in the back of her head. _Faith magic, they used to call it faith magic! Why the unnecessary new terminology?_ Then Byleth, metaphysics books cracked open, would explain yet again that the new terms were coined after scientists identified and proved the existence of a meta-circulatory system that generated magical energy in all humans, and how spell glyphs acted as a meditative exercise that focused and channeled that energy to create desired effects: a positive charge to resonate with living flesh and induce rapid healing, increase defenses, and even teleport short distances; while negative charges ‘clashed’ with the free energy floating in the atmosphere to set off elemental effects associated with traditional reason magic. _The meta-circulatory system was only the defining discovery of the 20th century, but sure Sothis, keep insisting it’s faith magic._

Fortunately, Sothis has left her to work without disruption, though Byleth can’t shake the sense she’s watching the events unfolding with a keen eye. And popcorn.

“Fine,” Byleth says, pulling up the warehouse blueprint one last time to map out her path. “Just hurry. We have another thirty minutes before our clients break out of your car.”

Dad laughs in disbelief. “That baby’s rated to withstand multiple Meteor XL casts.”

“You’re right.” Byleth recalculates. “Twenty minutes.”

* * *

Once she’s moving, everything in her collapses into the job. She’s always had a knack for this, existing so fully in a moment that her entire being funnels into the path forward, even as she monitors every variable as easily as she breathes. 

The security at the site is higher than the average warehouse in the high-crime SoRem district, but still relatively low to keep from attracting too much attention (and because anyone who would willingly sneak into a Bratva warehouse is inviting centuries of retribution). Byleth spots a camera and three guards. Her mind illuminates the sliver of blind spot that exists as she makes her way forward.

When she hits the electric fence, she snaps a twig off the bush where she’s hiding and tosses it at the fence. There’s a nasty sizzle, but no accompanying uproar from the guards. Not alarm-wired, then, but a high enough voltage to make her wince. Still best not to break the wires entirely and leave evidence she’d been here. A nearby tree has been recently trimmed, making it a poor candidate for climbing over. She tests a small fire spell and flame bursts from her fingers as normal. No anti-magic disruptors installed either.

She tosses a coil of copper wire over the fence, lightly anchors it into the ground, grabs a fallen branch from the recently-trimmed tree, and casts a resistance aura on herself that Sothis taught her. Then, gritting her teeth, she wriggles beneath the fence, using the branch to lever the coils away from her. Her knee brushes lightly against one of the coils, but with her armor and the anti-energy aura, the shock is fairly mild. With the last sputters of her aura, she yanks the copper wire off the fence, skittering into a blind spot as she returns it to her pack. 

All right. She’s inside the premises. Now what?

Calling up the blueprint again, she reviews the layout. There hadn’t been a ton of time to talk brass tacks with Dad or the Dagda surveillance team while Alex, Ellie, and Nader were following her. Their best guess was that the phones would be held in the back office, located on the second floor loft. There are fewer guards once she’s inside the premises, but she spots at least one situated on the roof, cutting off her preferred approach. Distractions won’t work since it'll raise the heat on Dad, and she’s not a six-foot wall of muscle so she can’t pass herself off as a guard. It’s almost a shame she couldn’t bring Alex along. Then again, if he’s anything like his past self, then he’s about as stealthy as a knife in a garbage disposal.

Again she reviews the notes from the Dagda team, sparse as they are. Her eyes widen as she reads over the latest update: analysis of video from another warehouse with a camera pointed at this complex’s entrance. They’ve pinpointed the guard transition schedule, and while that doesn’t help her narrow down her entrance point, it does give her an idea how to avoid setting off alarms.

From her spot behind a shipping crate, it’s easy to slip the keycard out of a passing guard’s pocket. She scans it with her phone, fingers crossed, and discovers it’s a standard key card. Grinning, she pulls her RFID reader out of her pack and clones the information onto a blank. Then, inspiration flowing, she tosses the original out onto the ground, careful to aim her throw when the rotating camera is pointed away from her. Then she slides behind another crate, slowly making her way to the back door.

It works like a charm. As the panicking guard searches for his key card, Byleth slips into the back door and hides behind a rack of plates, scanning the area for cameras. To her pleasant surprise, the area is relatively free of human obstacles, though the camera coverage is heavier. As she sneaks closer to the stairwell, she hears why.

“—really want those kids’ families’ attention on you, Laz? You first got made on how smoothly your operations went, at least far as anyone else knew.” Dad chuckles, and Byleth holds her breath.

She only releases it when Laz laughs along. “You have point, Gerry. But that operation only found trouble because of you and that daughter of yours.”

“Hey, I was doing my job, and you were doing yours. And it all worked out in the end, right? Look, I’ve got a number from the kids. I can get Nader el Sayed to double it if I lean on him. The richest ones always lowball—”

 _Ugh, of course_ he _had time to search for their identities._

“—wired to whatever shell account in the Brigid archipelago you and your people choose. It’s more than enough for all of you to retire out there, live good lives, maybe raise your kids without wondering if today will be the day Fódpol or one of the Leicester families blows your brains out.”

Byleth sneaks her way up the stairs, but can’t resist pausing again to hear Lazarenko’s response. “Interesting offer you make. And what is your angle, Gerry? You finally going to ask for cut?”

“Nah, this will be better advertising than any marketing campaign some rainbow-haired hipsters could dream up. All I want to know is why the fuck you let yourself get caught on camera.”

Byleth has to cover her mouth to keep the gasp from escaping. Really? Is he trying to get himself killed?

Well, if Dad’s going to play with flamethrowers, then she better finish her part of the task. The office is mercifully unoccupied with the drama going on below, but as a safe measure, Byleth quickly unloads the weapons she finds stacked on the desk, stashing every bit of ammo she spots in a random file cabinet drawer. While in the cabinet, a bright red envelope catches her eye. She’s not sure what possesses her to take the envelope out and snap photos of the letter, but she’s always had an instinct for that kind of thing. She snaps photos of the correspondence on the desk as well, sending everything to Dad’s analysts.

“You do not know. You flit like wasp around world, but nowhere is far enough from these _mudaks_.”

Huh, she missed something. Shaking her head, Byleth focuses on the wall-mounted safe. A quick scan confirms there’s no magicryption, which makes this substantially easier. Still, she’s no safecracker. Maybe Laz is dumb enough to leave the combination somewhere? She starts opening drawers, checking for notes, and finds in the bottom drawer a gallon-size plastic baggie stuffed chock full of powders, pills, and several prescription bottles.

Glancing around nervously first, Byleth pops the baggie in her pack.

“My people are the best, Laz. Your family needs new identities? You want your deaths faked? We’ll make it happen and I’ll send the kids the bill. Just tell me who ordered you to get caught stealing those brats’ phones, and we’ll take care of helping you disappear.” Dad’s got that smooth, easy tone he takes in hostage negotiations. Things must not be going as well as he hoped.

She spies a post-it note on the side of the desk that says nothing but _Alya_. Byleth searches 'alya lazarenka garreg mach' and the sixth hit is for an Insta with a smiling blond teenager. She spots Laz with his wife and two more girls on the first page, the classic family man played to a hilt. Byleth skims through the photos for more clues and finds a post of Alya laying across the hood of a brand-new, fully-loaded Shepard Celica convertible. It's dated 04/22/2027. Caption reads “could anyone have a sweeter 16 than mine?” Byleth puts in 04-22-11, but no dice.

“If I am going to ruin my family’s life, I need four times that number, not double. And help for my men and their families too.”

“Sure, Laz. Let me touch base with el Sayed and confirm the amount with him. You’re not gonna regret this.”

Stumped, Byleth examines the photos around the car shot, which are all from a lavish sweet sixteen party, complete with a birthday cake that could give the average wedding cake an inferiority complex. The photos were all clearly improved with image-editing software, so Alya probably didn’t post them the same day they were taken. Her metadata analysis options are limited on this tight a timeframe, so Byleth keeps scrolling. Before the party photos is another shot of Alya blowing out candles on a much smaller cake, Laz's arm around her. That one's dated 04/19/2027. Byleth checks her phone’s calendar app. Saturday night was the most likely time for a big birthday party, so 04/20/2019. She tries 04-17-11.

Bingo. The sound of the lock is sweeter than birthday cake. She rifles through the contents, which include several stacks of cash, fake passports, another gun for her to unload, and various documents she longs to photograph, and several phones. Alex’s phone is the easiest to find; its heavy-duty rubberized case is nearly the size of a brick. Ellie’s phone is a sleek red with a delicate filigree case. Nader’s case has so many different stickers on it she can’t make out what color it was originally supposed to be. Sliding the phones into her bag, she closes the safe and considers her exit strategy.

Her father and Laz are still arguing downstairs, which makes it easy for her to sneak down the steps and hide behind an industrial refrigerator. Not an ideal position, but she's far less cornered than she was up in the loft office. It also means she has a perfect view of who walks in the front door.

Alex and Ellie, with a half dozen burly guards right behind them.

“Look who we found outside trying to play soldier, boss,” one of the guards says, shoving Alex and Ellie forward. They both look more affronted than afraid.

Byleth checks her phone. Nineteen minutes.

Well. Fuck.

* * *

Laz is peacock-proud, eyeing Alex and Ellie. “You want to know why I got caught, Gerry?” he asks with vicious glee. “This is why. Do you know what you have brought me? Prince Alexandre alone will be worth ten times that number on your sad paper.” 

He turns to his men and starts speaking in Sreng. Byleth’s Sreng is rough, but she picks out “where” and “el Sayed.” From their response, it sounds like he got away, which leads to Laz cussing their asses out.

Time to assess. Dad would have given up his weapons to be permitted inside, although knowing him he’ll have something hidden away. He's in full body armor while Ellie and Alex have kevlar vests, but all their heads are bare. Based on Nader’s comments and that phone case, she’s pretty sure Alex has Dimitri’s superhuman strength and endurance, but she has no idea how either of those fare against bullets, or if he had the killer instinct so Dimitri loathed in himself but would be handy here. Edelgard had strong magic, and though she preferred physical engagement, she could pull out some nasty dark spells in a pinch. Could Ellie do the same, given how illegal anti-energy casting was? If so, she’d still be well-armed. Neither of them could ever heal worth a damn, however, so Byleth has to assume they’re not well-versed in rapid triage casting.

Nader being missing feels familiar enough to work with. She pops her head up briefly and notes the small second-story windows, rapid-calculating the angles. Sniping's not her specialty but it looks plausible. Checking the Dagda notes again, she pops through the suggested surveillance/sniper spots, and texts the coordinates and the message “make it count” to the burner Dad left for him.

That leaves her as the only one with a gun, and one chance to get the drop on them. The ideal would be if she could take out both of the guys holding guns to Alex and Ellie’s back, trusting Dad to handle himself, and possibly pulling them into cover before anyone else can react. There’s a risk if her aim is off she’ll blow her cover and they’ll blow Alex and Ellie’s brains out. Worse, if she misses, it could be Alex and/or Ellie's brains on the concrete.

This is a terrible plan. She can feel Sothis judging her. But Byleth can’t just leave Alex and Ellie here, and once Laz opens that safe, she and Dad will be forever in his sights to boot. She has to do something. They can deal with whatever comes next as long as they all make it out alive.

It’s easy enough to sneak into position while Laz crows about ransoming Alex back to Faerghus and _duh_ , Faerghus is a constitutional monarchy. Of course Soph found him familiar; every media outlet targeted at women her age hasn’t shut up about the very single, uber-rich smokeshow that is the Crown Prince of Faerghus since before he was even legal. As for Ellie, Laz seems less inclined to brag, but he’s clearly still pleased about nabbing her. She can’t be royalty, though. The royal von Hresvelg line died with Edelgard, though a few obscure cadet branches survived, and the Adrestian Republic’s been a representative democracy for the past 320 years. (Using a loose definition of the word ‘democracy’ there, Byleth concedes, but they limp along well enough.)

Alright, Byleth’s getting distracted. There will be plenty of time to deep dive once they’re out of this mess. She manages to catch Ellie’s eye and nods briefly, trying to convey her intent, but Ellie’s face betrays nothing. Byleth’s a little proud of her.

Okay. Go time.

Taking a deep breath, Byleth cocks her pistol, pops just far enough out of cover to get them in her sights, shoots, re-aims on the fly, shoots again, and drops back to the ground, releasing all the air in her lungs in a frantic puff.

She hears the sickening squish of one of the bullets connecting with flesh, and then a second echoing the first. One body, then another dropping to the ground. She risks an extra millisecond above cover to see the results. Sure enough, both guards are lying dead on the ground, and Ellie and Alex have darted behind stoves.

Holy shit, she did it. _She actually fucking did it._

No time to celebrate. Already Laz is roaring orders and someone’s rushing to her position. She rolls to the side and fires in the general direction of the footsteps. Red flies over the corner of the freezer she’s behind, and there’s cursing in Sreng. She slides again, determined to stay on the move.

Then she hears a grunt and whirls around, realizing she’s whirled right into a wall of muscle holding an Uzi. Then glass shatters and his head _explodes_. A sniper headshot from an excessively powerful rifle would be her diagnosis.

A headshot. From _that_ distance. Showoff.

Doesn’t stop her from smiling. Just a little.

The odds are closer to even now, but there’re at least a dozen more guards outside who could swarm in at any time. Laz yells an order not to hit the prince or “Ethon,” who Byleth assumes is Ellie. Speaking of Ellie, she’s close enough for Byleth to pull into cover, and they huddle together behind a stack of industrial-sized pickle jars. 

“Here.” Byleth hands her one of her pistols. “Do you know any magic?” After a nanosecond hesitation, Ellie nods. “Stay close behind me, and use whatever you think will keep you alive.”

“O-okay,” Ellie says, eyes wide and frightened, and Byleth recalls a squeak, a scream, and a scared girl, cowering in her bed. Still, Ellie manages to pick up a rifle from one of the dead bodies. Byleth kicks the rest away as she makes her next run for it. In the corner of her eye she sees Laz rushing upstairs to his office. He’ll be occupied for a while.

“Dad!” Byleth cries, now stuck behind a very holey cookware rack. Ellie wisely situates herself behind another freezer. “What now?”

He looks worn as hell, snagging another dead guard’s rifle. Behind the crates are two more dead guards, one with a snapped neck and the other with pulp where a face once was. She looks at Alex and his barely-red knuckles, his eyes wide with a very different fear from the one Byleth saw in Ellie’s.

Guess the killer instinct’s alive and way too well.

“You have the phones?” Dad asks.

Byleth rolls her eyes. “Duh.”

“Then we get the fuck out of here,” Dad says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking spoiled shits ruining everything.”

Both Alex and Ellie look at her, hurt, but it’s not the time to litigate that. “How many can we expect to encounter outside?”

“What? You cannot expect us to walk outside like this,” Alex says, mouth hard. “If the media gets wind of what has happened...”

“We’re in a gunfight and you’re worried about the media?” Jeralt kicks a jar of mustard. “The fuck even are your priorities, kid?”

“No. He’s right.” Ellie fidgets with her hair, blood streaking across the dye, but the jut of her chin is firm. “It’s just not about our reputations. If we’re caught here, we won’t be able to help you later.”

 _And you'll need our help,_ Byleth silently appends. It pisses her off too, but already her Dad is standing down because it's a damn good point. This isn't the Dagda DMZ or the Albinean jungle. Garreg Mach is by far the largest city in Fódlan, practically a nation in its own right, and there are six dead bodies on the ground. Police here aren't so easily bribed away or inclined to see Byleth and her dad as more solution than problem. And Riegan Media Corp would feast on this shitshow for months. She doesn’t even want to imagine the Hart News chyrons.

So Byleth searches for a solution, eventually landing on the bodies. Not perfect, but plausible deniability might be enough to get them over the hump. “You could change into guard uniforms. Some of the guys outside were wearing helmets. If we can find a couple inside, you two can sneak out without being recognized.”

Dad strokes his chin. “Could work. Blueprint shows a break room on the other side of the warehouse. My guess is that’s where they’d be. Everyone stay on your guard. Laz and the rest of his guys will come looking if we don’t pop out soon.”

“Got it.” She looks over to Alex, who seems to have recovered from whatever he did to that poor guy’s face. “You should grab a weapon.”

He swallows thickly, eyes shuttered. “I suppose I must.” He accepts the rifle with about as much enthusiasm as a skunk corpse.

Byleth keeps her guard airplane-high. She hears Laz above scream in Sreng, and Byleth doesn’t need her crappy Sreng to know he’s cussing her out over the phones. A heavy metal object clangs against wall, then another. “You responsible for all that noise up there, kid?” Dad asks with a small grin.

She gives him her best nonchalant shrug. “I might’ve unloaded every weapon and hidden the ammo.”

“That’s my girl.” His eyes glow with pride. Then he refocuses. “We don’t have much longer.”

They keep walking, and Byleth moves closer to Alex. “You okay?” she asks, certain he’ll lie.

“I’m fine,” he tells her, not looking in her direction. Lie. “Tell me...do all of your jobs turn out to be so...dramatic?”

He means the killing, but Dad bristles at the remark anyway. “No. In fact, we had this handled until you two were nabbed. This is why I told you to stay in the car.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if we had,” Alex snaps back. His voice rises high enough that Ellie puts a warning hand on his shoulder. “Lazarenko’s guards were waiting to ambush us when we exited.”

“How exactly did you get out of the car?” Dad asks, as if that was somehow relevant to anything. More relevant, in Byleth’s mind, is that there’s no way they were followed, and that they parked that car a half dozen streets away for that exact reason. The Bratva stumbling upon the car by chance was unlikely at best. That meant either Laz planted a tracker on one of them...

...or someone told them where the car was.

She has a hard time believing one of her dad’s people leaked, but the idea one of these three would plan their own kidnapping is even crazier. She’ll have to hash that one out with Dad later. 

“Allow me to personally assure you that the Crown of the United Kingdom of Faerghus will fully compensate you for any damage that may or may not have been incurred in the process of extricating ourselves from your car,” Alex says, deliberately avoiding looking at her dad. She’s kinda looking forward to seeing how much he wrecked the MBS.

Dad turns to Alex, murder in his eyes. He loves that stupid car too much. “The _fuck_ did you do to my car, kid?”

“Um...Soph?” Ellie tugs on her sleeve. “There’s a red dot on your forehead.”

_Shit!_

“Everyone get down!” 

She grabs Ellie and Alex’s arms and throws herself backward. Her thrust pulls them with her. They slam down behind another refrigerator just as bullets rip into steel. Dad ducks behind a line of stove ranges. They’re close to the break room, so Byleth kicks the wall. Concrete walls, to her delight, and not drywall. Thick enough to stop high-velocity bullets. She hisses, “Stay in the near corner,” to Ellie before knocking her into the room.

More guards in the warehouse. Laz not only found his ammo, he’s pulled out the nastiest shit he could find. Guess he’s done trying to ransom Alex and Ellie. Byleth tries to push Alex the way she did Ellie, but of course he’s a big immovable wall of heroism and zero self-preservation, firing his rifle at the guards with a grim expression.

Still, he lays down some excellent cover fire while Byleth and her dad advance on the new set of guards. The bodies of their friends inspire some to retreat, but others are running on pure vengeance. Laz is screaming orders in Sreng, so rattled even Byleth can tell he’s not fully coherent in his native tongue. She chokes down her bile and manages to stab one in the calf with her boot knife. He goes down like a felled tree. As he crawls away, Byleth wonders if that one will come back to haunt her. Then she’s tossing a throwing knife into the exposed shoulder of another guard, and his gun pops off as it hits the ground.

“Laz!” Dad screams. “Let us go! There’s no salvaging this mess.”

“Fuck you Gerry, and fuck your cunt daughter!” Laz spits back at them. “Kill them all! We will ransom bodies back to Kingdom and Republic!”

That’s the moment Alex stands up to shoot off another burst of cover fire, but Laz doesn’t give a shit anymore. Byleth can see it in her mind, bullets like a cloud of black flies, biting into his skin until nothing is left. Something deep and primal in her twists. She _can't_. She can't just let that happen. But her magic's not up to shielding bullets, so there's only one thing that can stand between him and Laz's gun.

She takes a deep breath, and—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lords' Full Names in 1180 vs 2027:  
> Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd = Alexandre Lambert Blaiddyd (formally styled as His Royal Highness Alexandre Lambert, Prince of Blaiddyd)  
> Edelgard von Hresvelg = Eleanor Ethon  
> Claude von Riegan = Nader el Sayed (title TBA)
> 
> Please keep the comments coming! I love hearing what everyone thinks about this crazy mess of a fic.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh my sincerest apologies,” Sothis says, sarcasm dripping like poison from her mouth. “Have I inadvertently hurt your feelings while explaining _how to manipulate space and time to suit your every whim?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Gun violence, magic violence. Ongoing drug use warnings apply.
> 
> Notes: [HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS SOMEONE MADE ME ART.](https://twitter.com/aishi_terus/status/1203965387269754881) THEY MADE ART AND I LOVE IT. I LOVE IT MORE THAN WORDS CAN EVER HOPE TO EXPRESS!
> 
> I also want to thank everyone who has left kudos and comments. It’s been great knowing how many of you are willing to stick with this wild ride.

—and everything is quiet, dark. Almost peaceful. Is this it? Is she dead?

“What. In my name. Were you _THINKING_?!”

Nope, not dead. Unless she’s in hell. Which is plausible given her life choices, and that shriek is the stuff of nightmares.

Byleth inspects her surroundings. Oh, they’re in the tomb void. Sothis must mean business. Byleth squints at her, hoping she looks stern. “What have I said about not interrupting me at work?”

“Nope!” Sothis waves her finger in Byleth’s face. “Do _not_ deflect! Not when you were about to turn us into swiss cheese to protect that boy! I did not save you from Kostas’s axe in your last life to watch you fall to his bullets in this one!”

Sothis has a point, but Byleth can’t admit that because then she’ll be insufferable. So she falls back into snark because that’s kind of their thing. “And since when are you in charge?”

“Since when am I in charge? _Since when am I in charge?_ ” Sothis is cartoon red, and Byleth wouldn’t be surprised to see steam blowing out of her pointy ears. “I filed for sole custody of your last living braincell after you tried ayahuasca!”

Right, the ayahuasca experiment. “Yeah, that was great.” She’s got to try that again sometime.

“That was _not_ great! You started screaming and did not stop for _ten minutes!_ My eardrums were bleeding and I do not even _have_ eardrums!” Sothis throws her hands up in the air, her whole body deflating and folding onto itself. “We are getting sidetracked. You cannot die here.”

She’ll sign off on that point. Byleth might be largely indifferent to life, but she doesn’t actively wish to die. “Okay,” she says slowly, “then I need a way to save Alex from Laz’s bullet hell without playing meat shield.”

Sothis, surprisingly, grows thoughtful at that. “I suppose you are correct. His fate is tied to nations...and to yours.” She eyes Byleth with the amused contempt of someone who just watched a monkey accidentally type out a reality TV script.

“Didn’t I—” Byleth stops to correct herself, even as the idea gains traction in her mind. “Didn’t my hypothetical past self have some kind of power over time?” It wasn’t always easy to tell what was going on during those particular exchanges. A reversal of some sort? But then some trips the deaths blurred together so seamlessly she found herself trapped in some sort of self-perpetuating charnel house, so who knew what was real and what wasn’t?

“The Divine Pulse, yes,” Sothis says, “she— _you_ —could briefly rewind time to prevent deaths on the battlefield.”

 _Not every death on the battlefield_ , but Byleth can’t think about that right now and still survive this mission. “If you’re so sure she’s me, then can’t I do it too?”

Sothis studies Byleth, her face neutral. “Perhaps you can. Yet the Pulse saved you from an axe already swung, not from a fully automatic assault rifle yet to fire. There are more variables at work. Including you. You were Byleth, yes, but you are also not... _Sophia_.”

Ugh. Sothis always uses her real name to drive some obscure point home, but Byleth's never sure what 'home' is supposed to be, and it's not like Sothis will ever drop a pin for her. So confusing. “Was I supposed to follow that?”

“I am thinking. Hush.” She swats Byleth away.

Byleth looks around the tomb void. It’s very green, and she knows it resembles the holy tomb where Rhea hoped Sothis would awaken within her, but it never _feels_ like that tomb. Then again, she’s never sure what anything is supposed to feel like. For all her _(Soph’s)_ attachment to the people in her trips, she can never be too sure if what she feels is what the original Byleth felt, or some funhouse distortion of emotion.

“How long can we stay like this before Alex dies?” Stranger though he is, she doesn’t want him to lose him so quickly. Also, it would be a nasty black mark on her professional record.

Sothis scoffs at her. “In this place we are beyond the reach of time. But I have slowed time in your world to a point so fine not even a god can see it progress.” Then her head tilts. “Hmmmm, perhaps that is an angle I might pursue. You are and are not her. Your reconstruction leaves new possibilities.”

“Reconstruction?” Byleth narrows her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that modern problems require modern solutions.” Sothis smiles serenely, deliberately ignoring Byleth’s question, and snaps her fingers.

They’re back in the safehouse, suspended in time, but everything is _brilliant_. Color explodes everywhere, bright and wild, bleeding into one another. She looks at her hands and sees herself shine a soft, glimmering jade, sees her father, with his burnt sunset gleam, sees Alex’s furious spiral of cobalt and onyx, sees the rose-red crimson bloom of Ellie, and even to the shimmering wheat-gold of Nader, safe in his sniper’s perch. Even Laz and the guards have colors, and she sees them too, sees how they were destined to reunite in this tragic moment, as light and life flow and twine into a kaleidoscopic river of pure cosmic energy, each of them helplessly tossed by the current in which they are all carried.

It is _beautiful._

It is...pretty much exactly what Byleth expected the first time she dropped acid, come to think of it. She turns to Sothis for an explanation, whose eyes shine bright as the light stream.

“This is the River of Time, in whose flow all Fódlan’s creatures are carried, until their river of their lives returns them to the earth,” Sothis explains, chest puffing up with pride. “Or, well, a very rough approximation of it. I had to dumb things down quite a...lot, as you only see in three dimensions, among other limitations.” Sothis throws her a vaguely pitying glance.

“It’s...nice?” Byleth manages. She’s not sure what she’s supposed to say about witnessing the flow of the cosmos.

Sothis tsks at her. “Do not lie to me. It is dazzling. You are dazzled. Well, wipe those stars from your eyes posthaste, for this is no mere light show. Very rough approximation though it is, you are still blessed with its sight, and can learn to guide its flow.”

_What the huh?_

“Confused? I shall provide you with an example your mind is capable of processing. Visualize yourself following through your fool notion of sacrificing yourself for that boy.” Sothis shakes her head, mumbling, “He always did make you stupid.”

Byleth wills herself to ignore that last remark and concentrates on the task at hand. It takes her a few tries, but eventually Byleth is able to trace her jade light upward, almost bisecting the rich cobalt blue before the jade sinks to the ground and winks out of existence. Byleth doesn’t need Sothis to translate _that_.

“Very good,” Sothis says in a tone that makes Byleth whirl around to check she’s not moved to one of her past self’s old classrooms. “Now, imagine a different choice. You do not put yourself in front of Alex. Visualize his life like a stream within the river, and follow it to its conclusion.”

She does, and the cobalt recoils before it bursts into nothingness. It makes her chest hurt to watch. Byleth glares at Sothis. “How is watching him die helpful?”

“Oh my sincerest apologies,” Sothis says, sarcasm dripping like poison from her mouth. “Have I inadvertently hurt your feelings while explaining _how to manipulate space and time to suit your every whim?_ ”

Okay. Yeah, when Sothis puts it that way, Byleth’s actually pretty embarrassed at her reaction. She grimaces at Sothis and mumbles out an apology.

“Hmph,” Sothis replies, which means all will be forgiven. Eventually. “Now to continue. So far, you only see what outcomes will result from specific choices you have made. Seeking an outcome without knowing what choices will make it so requires a different technique. Think of the future as a block, damming life until it drips back into the earth and the cycle begins anew. Now, push your will gently against the dam, not to break it down, but to seek the cracks and flaws through which life may flow freely.”

Sothis is right, Byleth admits after a few tries. It’s a trickier exercise than following the outcome of a specific choice. Like standing in a pitch-black, unfamiliar room, fumbling for a lightswitch. She even feels a sympathetic throb of pain in one of her toes, as if she’d stubbed it while looking. As Byleth persists, however, she finds closing her eyes makes it easier to pick out Alex’s gleam and let it mingle with hers, losing herself in the flow as the future carries them out of the warehouse and into a waiting throng outside. Pleased with her progress, Byleth checks and finds sunset orange, crimson rose, and wheat gold melting into a comfortable blur. 

“I see you found the others as well.” Sothis’s tone is very nearly approving. “Perhaps I shall give you supervised custody of your braincell every other Saturday.”

Byleth snorts. “What, no alternating holidays?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sothis warns her. She straightens. “There is one thing left. You must follow the flow again, and see what changes are wrought as it carries you. That is how you learn what steps you must take to reach the outcome you desire.”

It reminds her of some of the work she does for her dad, sifting through the noise of time’s river to find their droplets within it and pick out what has changed. There’s a wet feeling on her skin, and Byleth looks upward, realizing the fire sprinkler system had rained down upon them. She looks at her hand and the submachine gun she’d been using is gone. Instead, her hand is warm, the faint gleam of a fire glyph lingering on her palm.

“If I shoot a fireball at the sprinkler system,” Byleth says, “that will disrupt Laz, and he won’t shoot Alex.”

Sothis nods. “That was my conclusion as well. Shall we resume the normal flow of time and see if your hypothesis is correct?”

She swallows. “And if it isn’t?”

“One need not merely watch the flow of time,” Sothis replies, “but this lesson will suffice for today. Now, let us begin again.”

* * *

She practically has the glyph formed in her fingers when time resumes and the river melts out of sight. It takes no more than a light push to launch it at the ceiling sprinklers.

Turns out shooting a big-ass fireball out of her hand was more than enough to get Laz running for cover. The flaming eruption on the ceiling and the spray of water are downright superfluous, especially since the water can’t reach the flames.

Several guards panic once the fire starts. She picks out several cursing her, her father, Laz, the goddess, and any number of other entities as they bolt out the door. An alarm blares high, and somehow _that_ lights the fire under Laz’s ass that actual fire didn’t. He scrambles out the door before Dad can corner him, the rest of his guard following.

Breathing easier despite the rising smoke, Byleth turns back and meets Alex’s eyes. He knows. He knows she saved him. She can see it in his eyes.

They’re bluer in this life, she decides, a bit dumbstruck. Blue as Lake Teutates and deeper still, surface calm and dark depths hiding below. What no drug could ever recreate is his raw intensity, a presence forceful enough to crack and snap in the air around him. He merely stares at her with that blue-black gaze and lightning fizzles over her skin.

Then he snaps his eyes away, shaking his head as if to wake himself. It’s reassuring to know she wasn’t the only one in...whatever that was.

Ellie peeks out her helmeted head, visor up for the moment. Byleth welcomes the distraction, and smirks a tiny bit at how doggedly Ellie tried to make a uniform three sizes too big for her look somewhat neat and functional. She holds out a second visor and helmet to Alex, and Byleth makes a point of reconvening with her dad to avoid watching Alex while he changes. It also gives her a chance to cast a quick energy dissipation to cover her tracks from the fireball, but that won’t fool a halfway decent forensic mage. There’s a reason she avoids offensive casting on jobs.

As the flames continue to consume the roof, Ellie passes her and Dad bandannas, already wet from the sprinklers. They make breathing easier as smoke fills the room.

“Let’s take the same exit Laz did,” Dad suggests. “They’d pick the door the cops will reach last.”

Ellie bites her lip. “You don’t think they’ll be lying in wait for us?”

“Doubt anyone wants to commit suicide for Laz today,” Dad replies, “but if they do, we’ll handle them.”

Another explosion above, and the roof begins to cave. “Move!”

Byleth frantically runs beside Alex and Ellie, swerving and dodging displays and debris while trying to avoid slipping on the wet concrete. When Ellie stumbles, Byleth’s hand is there, and her gaze is warmer than the fires above.

She skids to a halt when they get to the back door.

Ellie had the right of it: two of Laz’s most pissed-off guards are stationed there, dead-eyed and rifles cocked. “Pakhan told us to make sure you burn,” one says with a growl.

With a savage growl, Ellie’s hands move lightning quick into a dark glyph, black lines cutting through the smoke and leeching away the firelight. The guards open fire, bullets raining like the sprinklers above, but Ellie never even flinches. The bullets sink into a shimmering wave of darkness before bouncing harmlessly to the ground, as if mere mosquitos to be swatted away. Cursing in Sreng, the men back away slowly, their hands in the air. Byleth makes out “witch,” among other curses.

It phases her not at all. Ellie snarls and pushes the dark field forward. Black flame licks at the guards’ feet as the darkness encircles them, rooting them into place. Both men are frantic, frenzied, their curses rapidly becoming into prayers as lightless fire twists and coils around their legs and torso. Soon it engulfs them, taking with it even the fingertips they reached out, desperate pleas as darkness consumes every inch of their flesh. 

Then abruptly it dissipates, the darkness dissolving into mere wisps of black smoke. Their bones clatter to the floor as Ellie washes her hands of her magic. A creeping chill snakes down Byleth’s spine. She has seen this. Remembers this. 

Hades Ω isn’t something one forgets lightly.

Dad looks as sick as Byleth feels, but they have no time for shock. She pulls a pale-faced Alex along with her as Ellie leads them out the door. Ellie looks back at Byleth, swallowing nervously. Waiting for Byleth to condemn her for using that terrible power.

Waiting, as Edelgard once waited, for Byleth to send her to the Eternal Flame.

She’s not going to do that. That’s...not something she wants. She takes Ellie’s hand instead, running her thumb over the knuckles, and Ellie’s relief is palpable to cut through the smoke. Byleth’s other hand drifts down Alex’s arm and finds his palm, laces her fingers with his.

Alex squeezes her hand and Byleth does not let the pain show in her eyes. She focuses, instead, on the metronome-steady tick of her heart, beat never changing even as she leads them out of the warehouse and into the unknown.

  
  


* * *

With the end of the mission comes the drop. That’s when the shit she’s been sloughing through tonight hits yet another fan.

In retrospect, it was pretty dumb to think they’d just sneak away from a burning building in the middle of SoRem, much less a known Bratva-linked business with nearly a dozen dead bodies inside and several kinds of illegal residual casts bouncing around to seal their fates. GMFD’s arrived to fight the warehouse fire, firefighting mages on pegasi flying above to cast oxygen-suppressing galewinds and blast water while the trucks set up hoses below. The firetruck’s blockade funnels them directly into GMPD’s makeshift command station.

Byleth’s stomach drops. GMPD swarms locust-style as soon as they see them, barking orders to surrender weapons and lay face down on the ground. Dad’s already yelling about lawyers and keeping her mouth shut, but Byleth’s too tired to disobey anyway. The concrete is surprisingly warm, and idly Byleth’s wonders if she could nap through her arrest.

“Excuse me, Officers?”

That voice. Byleth risks lifting her head towards it. It takes a moment to place Nader. In her defense, he’s traded out the eye-popping shirt from last night for an oversize white “I ❤️ GM” tee, adding gold aviators and a Club Mach Football cap to polish off his disguise. There’s also a gold lamé fanny pack and a pair of fake Goneril slides; she’s not sure why those were necessary, but Byleth admires his commitment to the aesthetic.

“Sir!” A voice blares over a megaphone. “This area is not safe for civilians. Please return to the designated zone.”

Nader is uncowed, walking with his hands in the air, holding a small booklet. “Officers,” Nader says, and his voice is all calm deference even as he strides tall and proud as Claude von Riegan through the gates of Enbarr. “In my hand is my passport. Before you arrest these four, please review my credentials.”

Byleth’s soon-to-be arresting officer glares at Nader. “This is an active fire zone and crime scene, sir! We ask you again to please return to behind the barrier.”

“I understand your concern.” Nader doesn’t even flinch as the arresting officer reaches for his sidearm. “I will set down my passport and then lay down on the ground with the other four.”

“Citizen!” Byleth’s officer raises his sidearm even as Nader slowly drops to the ground, tossing the passport to the officer’s feet.”

“For fuck’s sake, Carter!” another officer yells. “Just look at this idiot’s passport already. You’ll waste more time arguing with him.”

Carter shoots an angry look at the second officer, but picks up the passport after a cursory glance. As he reads, his eyes bulge from his skull. The second officer comes up behind Carter, shock written all over her face. Carter’s head swivels between the document and Nader’s face repeatedly, even as he runs a blacklight flashlight over the passport. “Is this real?” he demands, face inches from Nader’s.

Even from his position on the ground, Nader is all poise. “As real as your badge. Please escort me and my four associates here to the commanding officer at the scene. We’ll be happy to assist with the investigation once a few details are settled.”

Screw their investigation, Byleth thinks as her eyelids flutter shut on the concrete. She needs a nap.

* * *

“ _Beloved_.” Dima’s fingers are gentle, always gentle as they traverse her skin. He’s ashamed of his rough hands, callused and bent from years lost in the wilds, but she loves them, loves the way they scrape against her thighs, loves the way they kept him alive long enough to come back to her.

 _You’re alive_ , she’s told him, over and over, _and it’s a miracle. You survived, and that’s everything._

She leans towards his warmth as a cat stretches into sunbeams, but his heat drifts away from her. Silly. He’s afraid again he’ll break her. Foolish. She was forged in the fires of creation, anointed in the blood of the divine. She is the one thing he can never break.

“My love,” he whispers, and she reaches for him, brave as his warmth spreads over his skin. “ _By_ —”

* * *

“—phia? Sophia?”

Byleth leans into the warm hand on her shoulder, luxuriating in the warmth of his hands. Cracking her eyes open, she looks up to see—

—a very concerned and slightly confused Alex standing over her.

 _Crap_. Byleth pulls away immediately, straightening her spine. Something flashes over his eyes, like he’s hurt or something. Weird.

“Apologies if I disturbed you,” Alex says. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Huh?” Byleth asks. She was dreaming, wasn’t she? Byleth so rarely remembers her dreams, and the details of this one are already slipping from her grasp, but she remembers the warmth and—

— _you’re alive, and it’s a miracle._

Huh. Not sure what that’s about. She puts it in the mental filing cabinet named ‘things I should probably deal with but won’t.’ It’s pretty crowded in there, but she always finds room.

From the corner of her eye Byleth sees Sothis curled into a leather couch, snoring like a freight train passing by, and the jealousy is eating Byleth alive. Also, where’d that leather couch come from? Where the fresh hell is this?

“I told you she’s fine, kid. She always crashes after missions.” Dad’s sitting next to her with a tight smile. He ruffles her hair like she’s still ten, and she swats his hand.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty,” Nader says from the sofa where Sothis is sleeping. He winks at her. “We were about to draw straws on who got to kiss you awake.”

Alex turns a very bright shade of red, sputtering denials, while Ellie rolls her eyes.

Dad flashes them all a stink eye. “None of you are kissing my kid. Especially not in the middle of a goddess-damned police station.” He pokes Byleth in the rib. “I know you’re tired, kiddo, but the mission isn’t quite over. Time to get back on the job.”

Byleth throttles back a whiny complaint. She stretches her arms and neck, hoping that will get her energy flowing again. “Sure. Fine. I’m awake. Where are we?”

“GMPD headquarters,” Ellie says, and shit, that’s right. The whole mess floods back to Byleth. They’d been on the verge of arrest when Nader sweet-talked the cops into...letting them serve their time in a swanky corner office? Byleth doesn’t recall, but hey, there are worse ways to serve a jail sentence. 

There is the tiny matter of the several pounds of highly illegal narcotics in her bag, but if she hasn’t been hauled into lockup, then no one’s searched her. Byleth pushes that thought aside. Best she not let her nerves get the better of her. “There some reason we’re all stashed in here?”

Nader grins. Somehow his eye-popping shirt from last night has returned, tossed over the tourist shirt, and she has no idea how, but the look _works_. “Thanks to my timely intervention, we got a personal escort to GMPD with no one the wiser. Now we’re supposed to debrief with the Chief of Police, but he’s running late or something. So we’re waiting.”

Byleth squints at him. “Can we leave?”

“Sure,” Nader says far too easily, “but I find if you want people to play nice, you have to play nice back. We need them to play _very_ nice, so we’re waiting.”

Fair enough. She doesn’t ask follow-up questions; she’s already spotted four hidden cameras and a mic. Best thing she can think to do right now is to sneak in a few extra minutes of sleep.

“Hey, Sophie.” Byleth’s eyes snap open, narrowing at Nader. “I have a great idea. Since we’re all just sitting here, why don’t you tell us about the time Lazarenko kidnapped you?”

“Tried to kidnap me,” Byleth corrects. “And I have a better idea. Why don’t we introduce ourselves again? Except with full names. And titles.” She says the last part while looking directly into Nader’s eyes.

All three of them have the decency to look ashamed. “I suppose I should start, given what happened back at the warehouse,” Alex says. He stands up, and to Byleth’s eternal eyeroll, he bows deeply before her and her dad. “I am Alexandre Lambert Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the United Kingdom of Faerghus. It’s...not as impressive as it sounds,” he adds, sheepish.

Sothis wakes up with a loud snort and a “whadimizz?” before seeing Alex bowing. She looks to Byleth and laughs. “My. That one hasn’t changed a bit, has he?”

 _Don’t be so sure_ , Byleth warns her.

Nader suppresses a grin at Alex’s bow. “Look at you, stealing all my princely thunder. Nader el Sayed, and yes, I’m a member of the Almyran royal family.” At Byleth and Jeralt’s twin glares, he holds up his hands in defeat, but a smile breaks loose. “Alright, fine. I’m a prince as well, and it is as impressive as it sounds.”

“He acknowledges his Almyran heritage, but no other?” Sothis asks. She floats above him, poking at the spot on the shoulder where the Riegan crest-mark manifests. “Does he still possess the Riegan crest, I wonder?”

Byleth isn’t surprised at Nader’s omission, however. _If he isn’t still also Riegan, I’ll eat my entire brownie stash in one sitting. I’ll explain later._ No way is Byleth delving into the hot mess that the Leicester nations and Almyra's magically shifting borders, much less Reigan Media Corp, without a map and something nasty from Dad's liquor cabinet.

Sothis’s face scrunches in disgust. “I will not hold you to that wager. Now, what about Ellie?”

Ellie’s looking down at her hands, and Byleth can’t tell if the shadow over her face is shame or something else. “I’m not royalty the way Alex and Nader are,” she explains. “My father, Ian Ethon, served as President of the Adrestian Republic. He...left office five years ago.”

 _He was forced to resign in disgrace_ , Byleth silently amends. Sothis rubs her hands in anticipation of gossip, but Byleth can’t indulge her, because it’s not just the distant past that connects these three. They’re bound by far more recent history: The Summit of Three.

The back of Byleth’s brain itches, as if someone’s creeping around her skull. Sothis must be looking through her memories. Judging by the way her face collapses from curiosity to horror, she found them. It’s not something even Byleth's jaded eyes could forget easily; she and Dad had been glued to the news like everyone else in the world. As if, horrifying as the coverage was, there was some deeply-felt moral obligation to witness that moment.

It seems this life has been no kinder to them than the last.

Swallowing, Byleth smooths her expression. She feels the weight of their gazes on her, air already viscous. Judging by Dad’s total lack of expression, he figured it out back at the house and already processed. “Nice to meet you,” is all she says. “Like I said before, Sophia MacGowan.”

Her dad, looking to cut the tension, says, “And I’m—”

“John? Johnny Eisner?”

All five of them spring out of their seats and turn around. A dark-haired, bright-eyed man in a formal police officer’s uniform with a bushy handlebar mustache smiled back at them. “Johnny, it’s me! Louie Randall!”

Dad groans audibly, his head in his hands. _“Oh fuck no.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo I'm officially out of the "next chapter" prediction business. We got through Byleth's shiny new power but the bad trip will have to wait until next week. The good news is the chapter's already drafted, so I'll post it a few days early once I've finished tweaks. I'm so psyched for the next one, you have no idea. We'll finally be done with the prologue and y'all will get the first real glimpse into where this is all going. Plus you'll get to see a few of the other students in this life.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What happened?” Sothis asks, as if she doesn’t know. As if her core weren't rocked as hard as Byleth’s by what they just saw.  
> Her body is shaking, fingers barely obeying her mind as she tries to push a sweaty clump of hair from her face. “I think that’s what they call a ‘bad trip.’”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Verbal/emotional abuse, explicit drug use, explicitly negative drug experiences, explicit references to drug overdose, references to death. Ongoing drug warnings apply. Please let me know if I have missed any warnings.

“What the shit, man? This is crazy! I haven’t seen you in...what, 25 years?” Louie wraps his arms around Dad with the enthusiasm of an animal wrangler with a bear. Dad submits to this treatment with about as much tolerance as an actual bear would, clenching his fists to himself. It’s actually pretty funny to watch. “You haven’t changed one bit! Seriously, you haven't changed. It's uncanny.”

“Louie,” Dad grunts, his first admission he knows the Garreg Mach Chief of Police. “Neither have you,” he adds, but it’s not a compliment. 

Louie takes it as one anyway, beaming widely. “I knew you were still alive. Everyone else was convinced you’d really died! But I told them all that John Eisner, the greatest Director of Intelligence in the history of the NFIA and the history of intelligence in general, really—”

“My entire professional file, including my former title, is still classified, Louie,” Dad says through gritted teeth.

Louie waves off her dad’s protests with another chuckle. “Not anymore, buddy! It’s been 25 years, remember? Most of your file has been declassified, so the people of Fódlan can finally appreciate all your sacrifices to keep them safe!”

Alex, Nader, and Ellie shoot Byleth identical glares. Ellie mouths ‘Director Eisner?’ She shrugs back. This is news to her, too.

“And who’s this?” Louie turns to face Byleth. “Did you get a new protege, Johnny? Have I been replaced?” 

“Oh, I was just a passing customer.” Byleth replies nonchalantly before Dad can reply. “You’d be surprised how hard it is to find a five-gallon jar of oil at 3AM.”

Judging by the deep furrow in his brow and grunt, Dad doesn’t appreciate the joke, though the snicker from Nader and flush from Alex buoy her a bit. Even Ellie smiles a little. Louie, however, lets loose the sort of deep belly laugh that tells her he didn’t even get the joke. “I see what’s happening here! She’s got your sense of humor, Johnny. Such a kidder, just like your old man!” He holds out his arms to Byleth with an expectant smile. “Do you mind if I give you a hug? I’m a hugger.”

 _Of course he is._ “Sure.” She has to admit, Louie gives a good one. Goes on too long, but in an awkward brother way that’s endearing rather than creepy.

“I can’t believe you’re a father, Johnny!” Louie says, his eyes damp. 

“Happened a few years after I took off,” Dad says, looking directly into Byleth’s eyes as he does. Message received.

Louie releases Byleth and snakes an arm around Dad again, tugging him close. “See this guy here? This guy is my hero. He saved my ass back when I first got my detective’s shield and had to go undercover—”

“You went undercover?” Nader asks, trying (failing) to suppress his shock.

“I did! Infiltrating a local group calling themselves the ‘Knights of Seiros’—”

“Ahem.” A woman and a man stand in the doorway, the woman clearing her throat loud enough to cut through Louie’s story. “Chief Randall?”

Louie stops mid-word, mouth gaping. He laughs. “I’ll tell you all another time. Serap, Tom?”

The asymmetrical bob is a little longer, but the sharp cheeks and hard mouth are the same as her trip-memories. Other than swapping out light armor for a bureaucratic pantsuit, Serap looks the same in this life as she did in the last.

The man is much harder to place. His salt-and-sand hair and high forehead feel familiar to Byleth, seen yet unseen in a past life. What she can recognize is the mid-range suit of a prosecutor. “Hi folks,” he says with a gentle smile. “I’m Tom Stanhope, New United Fódlan Coalition’s Attorney for the Western Garreg Mach District. This here is—”

“Agent Serap Thornton, Acting Liaison to GMPD for the New United Fódlan Police Organization,” she answers, crossing her arms as she leans against the desk.

So Fódpol’s involved too. Wonderful.

Alex, Ellie, and Nader share her cynicism, it seems, and then some. All three were pleasantly neutral, if skeptical, with Chief Randall, but flash-freeze as Tom introduces himself. The naked hostility radiating off all three is not something Byleth would have anticipated. Nor is the fact that of the three, Alex is the quickest and most effective at covering his reaction, returning to his baseline composure. Nader settles for merely cool, while Ellie makes no secret of her disdain.

“I’ll be blunt, Your Highnesses, Miss Ethon.” Tom wipes his forehead. “The site had already been identified by Fódpol as a known Bratva storehouse, and there’s zero media chatter about your presence at the warehouse. Even if there were, you three have varying shades of diplomatic immunity, while Mr. Eisner is still a demigod at the NFIA. Which leaves you, Miss…?” Tom waits for her response.

“Great question,” Byleth says, pointing her tone in her dad’s direction. 

He scowls at her. “Not a word, kid.”

“I would sincerely hope it is not your office’s intention to make Miss...Eisner into a scapegoat,” Alex says in a pleasantly frosty voice. His eyes turn icy-sharp as he leans forward. “The Crown would be most displeased to hear of such an injustice being done to yet another innocent soul.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t do to piss the House of Blaiddyd off,” Nader says, lounging back even as his eyes narrow on Stanhope. “Or a prince from the country personally funding half your paychecks.”

Ellie tosses her hair, eyes razor-pointed at Stanhope. “I may not be royalty, but I still have access to levers of power. And I know precisely which ones to press, Mr. Stanhope.”

“Whoa,” Louie says, hands up in a conciliatory gesture. He pastes on a smile. “Easy there, kiddos. Miss Eisner’s not under arrest, so there’s no need to threaten anyone.”

 _Yet_. Byleth resists the urge to look at her pack. She settles for staring out the windows. They’re what, seven stories up? Did she pack a grappling hook?

“Neither Fódpol nor the NUFC Prosecutor’s Office has a desire to pursue this matter further,” Tom admits.

“Cowards,” Serap mutters beneath her breath, and Byleth wills herself not to smile. Seems she shares her past self’s disdain for deference to the elite as well.

Tom sighs in Serap’s general direction. “We will still require a debrief by Fódpol. Sorry, but we need to know what happened in case something does leak to the media.”

Dad shakes his head. “Not without my lawyer present.” All three of their clients chime in their agreement.

Serap glares at them. “My office will make the arrangements. Mr. Eisner, expect a call from the current NFIA Director by end of business today. I suggest neither you or your daughter leave the Garreg Mach territory until this is resolved.”

Dad sighs. “Fine. Can we go, then?”

Louie laughs and thumps Dad on the back. “Not until I get your new phone number, Johnny. We’ve got 25 years of catching up to do!”

* * *

There’s a bit more bureaucratic back-and-forth (as well as another hug from Louie) before the five of them are escorted to a below-ground parking garage for discreet exit.

“Those three sure seem taken by you,” Dad murmurs in Byleth’s ear. “You sure you still want to do this?” Swallowing heavily, Byleth nods at him. “Smart girl. Just make sure your pack is within two feet of the targets.”

Magicryption is the most secure data encryption method in the world, because it keys casting to the energy signature of the user. It’s nearly impossible to break through brute-force hacking, because it requires duping the system into accepting a copy of what more poetic scientists might call the human soul.

That does not mean there aren’t ways to break it.

Certain glitches in the magicryption firmware can be exploited if the original user is close by to fool the system into accepting a cracked version of the resonance cast. The actual glyph required can be detected with a sophisticated enough residual resonance detector. It tends to reset after a minute or so, but it’s more than enough time to upload a hijack.

The developers call it _Pegasus_ , because once it was properly installed, it was nearly impossible to root out of the system. Copies of their phones would be uploaded the MacGowan Group’s cloud within hours of installation.

She expects it will be difficult, maneuvering her pack close enough to each of them for long enough without arousing suspicion, but in the end, each of them makes it extremely easy for her.

Ellie goes first, asking sweetly if Byleth objected to a hug. Byleth agrees, and she still smells like orange blossoms and fresh citrus. “This won’t be the last time we see each other,” she assures Byleth solemnly. “I could use—I mean, I would like to have you as a friend.”

“Okay,” Byleth says as she spots Dad’s hand signal. “Sure.”

She waves goodbye and heads to a waiting town car. Standing by it is none other than...huh. _That’s_ not who Byleth expected to see.

“Frederec,” Ellie says with a tired smile. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Why, it was no trouble at all, Eleanor!” Frederec’s carrot-orange waves spill over his sport coat, whiskey eyes behind thick square-rimmed glasses. He practically engulfs Ellie in an embrace. “Well, if I’m being truthful, it was a moderate amount of trouble coordinating with your security detail, and you probably should consider giving your social media team a bonus. Or perhaps even an extra day off? Mitra sounded rather frazzled when I called…” Byleth doesn’t hear Ellie’s response as they both get in the car.

“Hmmmm,” Sothis remarks as the car drives away. “ _That’s_ different.”

 _Yup_.

“And we are certain Hubert not lurking behind a pole somewhere?” Sothis asks. She darts behind one of the parking columns to check. “No, it seems that he is not at her side in this life. It is strange to imagine him outside her shadow.”

Byleth agrees. Also, she was really looking forward to seeing how extra Hubert’s goth look would be in this life. Band shirts and half a pound of metal in your face wasn’t an option back in 1180. Still, is it a bad thing? From what little she glimpsed of Frederec, he’s inherited his predecessor’s willingness to challenge Ellie, but the friendship between them seems genuine enough. _Did you learn from Edelgard’s mistakes, Ellie?_

It’s good she had that shock to prepare her, because what happens next crushes the air from her lungs.

“I cannot thank you enough for your aid, Sophia,” Alex says, earnest as he takes her hand in his. _Fuck, he’s gorgeous._ “Please allow me to take you to dinner as a token of my appreciation.”

No, not that part. (Although that part leaves her lightheaded for a different reason.) She mumbles something noncommittal once her father confirms the upload, then shoves the brick-phone in his hands and scrambles away before he can catch her face turn red.

This part: when she sees a behemoth of a man with a platinum-white high-and-tight, bright against his amber skin, who answers Alex’s gentle greeting with a “Your Highness,” so icy it froze the blood in her veins.

 _Oh no_. Oh _this_ is all wrong. Even Sothis’s eyes are shadowed as she watches beside Byleth. 

Dedue was taciturn on the best of days, but not once did Byleth question his devotion to Dimitri. This is not the Dedue who so gently coaxed the half-mad corpse of a prince to eat something. This isn’t even the Dedue who stood unflinching while Felix spat acid at him. This is...

“Devan,” Alex whispers, grief etched into every feature. “I...thank you.”

Devan ignores Alex, turning instead to open the car door, apparently determined to make sure Byleth never breathes properly again. Out springs a lithe, dark-haired figure with a messy ponytail, shaking his head furiously. He yanks Alex towards the car. “What the fuck did you do this time?”

“Fallon,” Alex says, relief and shame warring on his face. “I’m so sorry to have dragged you into this mess.”

“Take your apologies and shove them up your ass. I’m so fucking done.” Fallon practically shoves Alex into the car, which would be hilarious if it weren’t so damn sad. “You just can’t fucking help yourself, can you? You’re like a charging boar, knowing someone else will clean up the shit you leave everywhere.”

Alex hangs his head low, heavy hair concealing his eyes. That thaws Devan’s deep freeze slightly, pity briefly flashing over his eyes. “Fallon,” Devan warns, tone even, “we should continue this conversation elsewhere.”

Fallon’s clearly itching for a fight, given how his fists curl, but Alex won’t give it to him. He even stares down Devan briefly, sizing up his odds against a man a foot taller and twice his weight in muscle. Devan cocks a single eyebrow, leaning over Fallon just enough to emphasize what a colossally stupid idea that would be, and Fallon scowls in defeat. “Fine. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Fallon…” Alex lifts his head slightly, biting his lip. “Thank you for coming. Truly. Your friendship means everything to me.”

Byleth cringes in advance for what’s coming next. To her shock yet again, Fallon softens a fraction, squeezing Alex’s arm gently even as he pushes him farther into the car. “I’m glad you’re safe,” Fallon admits, sounding more like he’d just pulled a tooth out of his mouth than admitted he was scared, but Alex’s smile could light the whole damn city.

“Well,” Sothis remarks dryly as their car drives away, “at least Alex is not entirely without emotional support.”

 _I’m not sure that’s an improvement, Sothis_.

“Me neither,” Sothis says, her gaze as troubled as Byleth feels.

“Blaiddyds, right?” Nader nudges her knowingly, but she can feel his tension vibrating in time with hers. “Reality TV can’t hold a candle to the OG drama kings and queens.”

Byleth nods in agreement, still watching the street. The weight of that sits on the clockwork in her chest, threatening to crush the life out of her. She thinks back to the aftermath of The Summit of the Three. Given the (alleged) involvement of Duscur separatists in The Summit, it’s not hard to draw the obvious parallel to the Tragedy of Duscur. So what would have driven Dimitri and Dedue so far apart in this life that a still-furious _Felix_ felt obligated to step up in his place? (Also, how many years of therapy did it take for Fallon to be able to add that last part?) “What about you, Nader?”

“Me?” He laughs heartily, clapping her on the shoulder. “No loyal retainer to pick me up, just a lazy friend who sent her driver to take me to the airport. She’s already got our post-jail spa day booked. Want to tag along? We’re gonna get rubbed down with a gold and deep sea kelp body mask and then soak in a bathtub of vintage Cabernet. You’ll never see your pores again.”

Byleth shakes her head. “Sounds a little out of my price range.”

“You sure?” Nader asks, his gentle teasing taking on a slight edge. “My treat.”

For a moment she considers it. She really does, pretentious as it all sounds. It could be fun if they don’t get mad at her drinking the bathtub wine. But there’s this hollow feeling in her chest she can’t ignore any longer. No matter how many times she reminds herself she doesn’t know these people, she didn’t _feel_ it until Ellie hugged Byleth goodbye and hugged Frederec hello. Until Devan turned his back on Alex and Fallon picked up the pieces instead. Until Nader asked her about gold seaweed and bathtub wine.

So yeah, bathtub wine sounds pretty great right now. But what sounds even better would be seeing _her_ Dimitri, Edelgard, and Claude again, the ones she knows and has grown to love through her trips. She knows Dimitri’s broken edges, the spots where he’s cracked and bleeding; but she has no idea where those edges stop and Alex’s begin. She’s seen how Edelgard’s ice melts, but she doesn’t know if Ellie’s warmth is calculated or genuine or some clever blend of the two. She knew who he was when he was _von Riegan_ , but she’d be a fool to believe she knows _el Sayed_. So sure, they’re not real, but right now, if Byleth’s being honest with herself, that might be their best feature.

And she still needs a nap, although that can wait. “My pores are fine.”

Nader studies her with a quizzical expression. “You’re interesting, you know that?” he asks as her dad signals the last installation has gone through. “Like a puzzle. Can’t wait to solve you.” He blows her a mock kiss, smirk firmly in place, as he slides into the backseat of the town car. 

Sothis turns to her. “At least some things remain in this life,” she remarks. Sounds like she came to the same conclusion about Nader’s lazy spa-hopping friend. If Byleth had been asked which relationships would carry into this life, that one wouldn’t have been one she would have expected, given Claude’s distrustful nature. Still, it’s nice to know not everything is different. Even if it leaves her feeling even more confused and adrift than before.

When their car arrives, Byleth looks outward, and pointedly ignores Sothis staring at her in the window’s reflection.

* * *

She still doesn’t have a good hookup in Garreg Mach, so Byleth pulls the baggie of contraband and inspects its contents carefully. It’s quite the pharmacopia, with nearly a dozen almost-full prescription bottles, half a dozen bags of different powders, and several vials. Pulling out a stack of test kits she swiped from a school health clinic, she tests each one with a scientist’s rigor, discreetly labeling each with its contents. 

There’s every kind of high she might imagine here, and all good quality. If Byleth had to guess, these were samples of products for potential distribution through Laz’s networks. Some, like the Fentanyl scrip, she considers flushing down the toilet, but she’s too lazy to bother. Opioids never did much for her anyway. 

The liquid LSD vial is the biggest prize, but she also finds an assortment of heart blotters tucked between the cocaine and MDMA powder bags. It’s not hard to work out the dosages, and after another test, she pops her usual dose in her mouth.

Sothis watches her work silently, eyes growing increasingly frustrated. “I do not understand the purpose of this,” she says, “when the real Dimitri, Edelgard, and Claude seem quite eager to make your acquaintance.”

That’s the difference between them, Byleth supposes. Sothis is trapped inside her, eager to escape her human prison, but Byleth’s the one who has to pick up the pieces. “They’re not the ‘real’ Dimitri, Edelgard, and Claude,” Byleth explains, “because there’s no such thing any longer.”

Sothis clucks her tongue at Byleth. “Do not tell me you still believe this is all in your mind?”

Byleth considers her answer. “Evidence says it’s not all in my head.”

“Yet you remain unconvinced?”

“I think I’m tired,” Byleth replies, falling back onto her bed, “and I miss them. Leave me be.”

Sothis makes a snide remark about dropping acid being a bad idea if she needs to sleep, but Byleth ignores her. Already her body feels heavier, and there are shapes coalescing at the edges of her vision, clear indicators the trip’s beginning. A glance at the clock shows it’s only been 45 minutes; that’s sooner than she’d usually expect it to hit her system. It’s still a gentle feeling, though.

This stuff must be really good.

* * *

She’s walking through smoke and fog, hands and feet almost numb from the chill. Byleth puts her hands under her arms and shivers as she walks towards the light, determined to find her path forward.

A gunshot fires in the distance, and her ears perk up. She follows the sound, knowing running towards danger is a mistake but desperate to find her escape—

* * *

—she comes out of the fog, to a bombed-out husk of a street, twisted steel and broken concrete; everything is gray and rust. Walking down the thoroughfare, she studies the remnants of the architecture, trying to figure out her location.

“You take me to the nicest places,” Sothis remarks, walking beside Byleth. She kicks a chunk of concrete with her bare feet and it flies into the stratosphere.

“I’m surprised you’re here,” Byleth says. Sothis sits out more trips than not, though she rifles through the memories of them after, as if Byleth were her personal wikipedia. 

Sothis’s face is shuttered. “I did not choose to join you this time.”

Oh. Byleth’s not sure what that means. Come to think of it…

“Where are we?” Sothis asks her.

These are modern streets, with fresh rust on late-model cars, young blood smeared on the pavement.

“Sothis,” Byleth says, stomach dropping, “I don’t think we’re in 1185 anymore.”

* * *

She rises from a sea of white, violet flames burning in the marble of her face. Her mouth is pink, the living thing emerging from the void. “No longer will we suffer for the sins of our forebears. No longer will we bow and scrape to the vultures who pick at our bones. Adrestia will once again cut its own path through Fódlan!” Ellie cries, her words slicing through the screen like the dagger laid across her palm.

* * *

His golden hair hangs heavy as any crown as he sits upon a makeshift throne of scrap iron. Byleth looks to the horizon, but there are men and women in the colors of Faerghus as far as the eye can see, the bright blue of their uniforms a mockery of the storm-gray skies above.

Lightning streaks across the sky and into Areadbhar, gripped tightly in his hand, but he remains motionless as electricity pours through his system. As the thunder roars, he finally lifts his head, as if he were a monster brought to life by the thunder.

When he rises, the medals on his chest jangle beneath the enormous blue greatcoat thrown over his shoulders, the fur collar an echo across the ages to a king like and unlike the one standing before his armies now. When he lifts his head, the summer-blue of his eyes is gone, the flesh around them heavy and scarred, and pitiless black voids remains where they once were. “We and we alone walk the just path, the righteous path. Let those who prey upon the weak, who trade in lies and coercion, be crushed under the heels of Faerghus!” Alex— _Dimitri_ —screams, and his armies roar back in bloodthirsty echo.

* * *

She stands upon a busy city street, screens so bright they hurt her eyes. The people are deathly still around her, transfixed as they watch him approach the podium.

His hair and beard have grown longer, and the green of his eyes has been nearly extinguished by his exhaustion. There’s an austere quality to him now; the sleek charcoal suit he wears is only modesty embellished, though he still wears the gold drape of his forefathers. Failnaught is strapped to his back, pulsing as he walks through the wild throngs, but it is changed, transformed—a hero’s relic turned into a very modern implement of war.

Still his people clamor. They scream his name, they hold up signs. Screens the size of buildings wait behind him as he approaches the podium, and as their adoration pours into him, the sad, tired man transforms, lights up like a rockstar starting his set. Around her people cheer along with the crowds at the rally. He is the monster they need now. 

“My people,” Nader— _Claude_ —cries, his hands raised to the sky. His many faces tower hundreds of feet above Byleth. “They say we are not of Fódlan. That we are beasts forsaken by their goddess, though we all bleed the same color. I say we cut every Fódlandi coward open and show them.”

* * *

She is a modern monster, golden ram’s horns curling around her delicate face. White poppies, wormwood blossoms, and oak leaves crown the gleaming strands of her many-hued hair, as colorful as the River of Time. Her coat is white and gold, red subtly tucked into the trim as if hiding secrets. Her people weep with joy as her hand brushes theirs, their love for her twisting into manic exaltation. They give her amaryllis blooms, and she hands them asphodel in return.

Amyr lays upon the ground next to them, adorned with flowers and flashing with the same incandescent colors as her hair. It’s almost...hypnotic, and Byleth has to force her eyes away.

“Walk with me now, my teacher,” Ellie— _Edelgard_ —pleads, hand outstretched, “and our sad history will wash away with the summer rains.”

She turns to her people, their worship burning like cleansing fire through the crowd. “If we are all equals in the eyes of Sothis,” she screams to them, “then _let no man call himself a king._ ”

* * *

He’s limp in her arms, mouth as blue as his eyes, his pupils pinpricks in his clouded gaze. She chokes back her tears as a horrible gurgling sound rises from his near-motionless chest. The foam pooling at the side of his mouth shapes itself into a flower.

Tears fall from her face as she strokes his hair. Byleth bites her lip to keep from screaming. The pain grounds her, forces her to focus. She looks to Sothis, who sits beside her as Alex's breathing slows to a standstill.

“Help me,” she begs. “Help me save him. _Please_.”

* * *

He sits in the corner of his cell, dark head hanging between his knees. Byleth watches him through the jail bars. A flash blinds her eyes, and an old Polaroid photo flutters to the ground.

She picks it up, and finds a key in her hand. It fits in the lock perfectly, and at the turning of the tumbrels, he looks up: hair and beard wild, eyes tired.

“I’m sorry,” Byleth says, though she has no idea why she’s apologizing.

“It’s fine, Teach,” Nader says, eyes sad. “I’m used to you not picking me.”

* * *

Then she’s back on the silent, broken streets with Sothis. They walk hand in hand, goose stepping around corpses like potholes.

One door is still left standing, dull rust-orange, the final shades of dusk before twilight sweeps the gold from the sky. “Will you walk through?” Sothis asks her, solemn.

Byleth sighs. “Do I have a choice?”

* * *

When she opens the door, it’s raining in the cemetery. Sothis holds an umbrella over her black dress. “Thanks,” she tells Sothis, who simply nods in return.

Each step towards the coffin is heavier than the last, her body sagging under the weight of her grief. The lilies sitting upon it make her angry, and she tears one from the bouquet, tearing it into tiny strips, watching them flutter into the hole beneath her.

She feels them breathe behind her before they can speak. Byleth whirls around to see Alex, Ellie, and Nader in puppy dog eyes and their funeral best.

“Why are you here?” she asks them. Anger rises like smoke from the ashes in her veins. “Haven’t you done enough?”

Byleth doesn’t wait for an answer, stepping forward to join the dead lily in the grave.

* * *

She lands in the holy tomb, Sword of the Creator in her hand, and Dimitri’s eyes are burning coals in their sockets.

“So even you betray me... _beloved_.” He spits the word with the same venom he once spoke _that woman_.

Byleth doesn’t know what else to do, so she pulls his mouth to hers. His lips are still achingly soft under hers, melting like spring snow to reveal the flowers sprouting beneath the cold, even as she plunges her sword into his gut.

* * *

“Where do you think we are?” Sothis asks her as they stumble back onto the crumbling streets of Garreg Mach. Broken glass and steel rise behind the ancient cathedral.

Byleth shakes her head. “You’re asking the wrong question. Look.”

She points to the digital clock tower. 31 Lone Moon 2036, 13:41.

In the distance, a mushroom cloud rises, and it’s the last thing Byleth sees before she’s burning, burning, flesh peeling from her skin—

* * *

She’s not sure when she starts feeling like herself again. Like the world isn’t nuclear fire and ice. She shivers, and Sothis rubs soothing circles into her back as she hacks out one wet sob. Trying to catch her breath, she clutches the covers of her bed, pulling them over her, as if she were still a child hiding from a monster in her bed.

There are no monsters in her bed. 

No, all the monsters are in her head.

No, all the monsters are in her bed, and in her head, and deep, deep within her clockwork heart.

“What happened?” Sothis asks, as if she doesn’t know. As if her core weren't rocked as hard as Byleth’s by what they just saw.

Her body is shaking, fingers barely obeying her mind as she tries to push a sweaty clump of hair from her face. “I think that’s what they call a ‘bad trip.’”

All Byleth can think is: _should’ve picked the bathtub wine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other Reincarnation AUs: meet cutes, living parents, normal lives, no imminent wars  
> My Reincarnation AU: the lords had a bad time at Coachella and now everyone has nuclear weapons
> 
> We're in it now, folks. Thanks to everyone who has left their kudos (over 150 of you), their comments, and their thoughts/ideas! It's really inspiring to me that so many of you are joining me on this wild, wild ride.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How _do_ you dress for a job interview when it’s your destiny to get the job? (The fic previously known as 'you know me as the girl who plays with fire'; now has a new title.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: yes, I changed the story title, sue me. Even though I'd been rolling this idea around for a while, I dashed off the original piece on impulse, and now that it's grown, well, one moment you're singing along to Kim Petras's Turn Off The Light EP and get to [In the Next Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5kilftdzgrM), and the next moment you're like "WTF THAT IS THE TRUE NAME OF STONER FIC." This story is very much a big weird experimental work in progress, in case y'all haven't noticed. I actually started it back when I was stuck and hating everything I was writing for [this beautiful piece of trash](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825498), and while I am committed to staying on this ride as well, it's probably not a coincidence I'm back here while the prequel/sequel to said beautiful piece of trash is giving me fits.
> 
> Second of all: thank you for all the comments/kudos! I haven't responded to a lot of y'all yet and I plan to fix that in the coming days.
> 
> Anyway, we now return you to your irregularly scheduled ~~Byleth~~ Soph being peak eldritch dirtbag self and Sothis judging the shit out of her for it.

When Byleth comes back to herself, she’s halfway off her bed with no pants.

Being awake sucks. There’s no way around that. Groaning, Byleth throws an arm over her eyes, trying to block out the sun. It doesn’t work.

“I know you are awake.” Sothis’s sing-song voice is perfectly pitched to piss her off.

This is not Byleth’s favorite part of… anything. This is one of those not-great moments that happens, the one where her head pounds and everything’s too bright and uncomfortable questions like _what am I doing with my life?_ and _do I have a problem?_ and _what is stuck to my face?_ rattle around her head louder than usual. But she’s used to it, so she pushes through.

The deep-seated existential dread is new. Byleth’s drawing blanks on how to handle that.

Sothis watches her, head resting on her chin as she sits at the desk. Byleth scowls. “I see we’re starting with the judging face.”

“Do we really ever really stop with the judging face?” Sothis ponders aloud, her legs swinging from Byleth’s desk chair. “Truly a puzzle for the ages.”

“That bad, huh?” She’s long given up being embarrassed about asking Sothis what happened while she was blacked out.

“Not really,” Sothis says, thoughtful. “You were panicked after you came down, obviously, but you drank a lot of water and tried that meditation app to reframe your thoughts until you fell asleep.”

Oh. That’s… pretty healthy, actually. Unbelievably so. She squints at Sothis. “Really?”

“NO!” Sothis screams, slamming her fist on the desk. “You took a handful of mob klonopin and watched _Always Sunny_ while licking nutella off your fingers!”

So _that’s_ why her hand is brown. Byleth didn’t want to ask. “Yeah, that sounds more accurate.”

Sothis makes one of her disgusted noises. “Well now that you are awake, we must discuss your latest vision.”

Byleth stops searching her bedroom for pants to face Sothis. “Vision?”

“Of course.” There’s a stern little jut to her chin. “Unlike your prior visions, it appears thus one shows the future, not the past. I am uncertain whether the cause of this change was meeting the three house leaders again, or perhaps being open to the River of Time is taking your mind new directions—”

“Or, you know,” Byleth says while pulling on her usual black denim cutoffs, “it was NBD.”

Sothis glares at her. “You know I do not like it when you use chat acronyms.”

“No big deal,” Byleth translates while wincing at a rogue sunbeam peeking through the blinds. Where are her hangover sunglasses? Frustrated, she flops back onto the bed. “Because it isn’t. A big deal.”

(Maybe if she says it enough times she’ll believe it.)

Sothis obviously wants to argue, but an unexpected chime cuts her off. Byleth jerks to a sitting position, searching for the source. The chime rings again, and Byleth tries to place the sound. Reaching in the direction where the sound came from, she finds her personal phone.

Sothis at the phone disdainfully. “That thing has been unusually noisy these past few days. Is it supposed to do that?”

For normal people, yes. For Byleth, well, only Dad ever calls her personal number, and never when they’re in the same country. Plus, he knows to use secure messaging. Whoever’s trying to reach her now doesn’t know better.

She scans her notifications. 53 text messages, 7 missed calls. None of the numbers are familiar, though based on the country codes, she has a few guesses even before she opens her messages:

 **Fhirdiad, Faerghus:** Hello Sophia, this is Alex. I obtained this number from Nader and hope you have no objections to my texting you unprompted. Are you feeling better? I wished to thank you again for your assistance the other day. You and your father are very impressive…

(It goes on quite a while from there. No wonder he breaks so many phones. This isn’t a text message, it’s a dissertation.)

 **Enbarr, Adrestia:** hi soph!  
**Enbarr, Adrestia:** this is ellie **  
Enbarr, Adrestia:** how are you feeling?

 **Kufa, Almyra:** sup

After that are two more polite but increasingly concerned text dissertations from Alex, a second thank you with a few short, appropriately-timed check-in texts from Ellie, and a shitload of memespam from Nader. She snickers at a pic of the woman from that creepy exercise bike commercial and Nader asking “how mch €€€ 2 rescu her?”

They’ve left her voicemails as well, but Byleth skips them for a local number with a thirty-two-second message: “This message is for Sophia Eisner. I am Dr. Flynn with The University. It would be a pleasure to speak with you at your earliest convenience regarding—”

Byleth deletes the message.

Sothis flops onto the bed. “Do you intend to ignore your phone the same way you ignore me?”

“No.” It’s tempting, but while Sothis won’t be deterred forever, this will buy her the most time. Taking a deep breath, she calls back Dr. Flynn.

* * *

“You are really going to meet Dr. Flynn dressed in that manner?”

How _do_ you dress for a job interview when it’s your destiny to get the job? Apparently her oversize University of Morfis she borrowed from an ex-roommate’s boyfriend, her black cutoffs, and her usual combat boots aren’t “professional” enough, but how many jobs has Sothis applied for, huh? How do you even get a gig as a progenitor god? Sothis has always been pretty vague on details about that.

She swipes Dad’s hangover sunglasses and tries to comb her hair into something approaching neat. She’s years overdue for a cut, and the entire waist-length mess is fried from that time she got stoned with Sothis and decided to see what she’d look like with mint hair (not great with a sink bleach job), and that _other_ time she got stoned with Sothis and decided to see what she’d look like with pink streaks (even worse with the mint dye).

 _Good enough,_ she figures. It’s not like there's any way to screw this up.

* * *

According to the walking tour pamphlet, The University at Garreg Mach, commonly known as The University, was the second great love of St. Byleth’s life. While reading, Sothis materializes and points at the phrase ‘St. Byleth.’ “Explain that.”

Oh right, _that._ “Archbishop Eisner was officially canonized a couple centuries ago by the Church of Seiros.”

She focuses very hard on admiring the columns of Dominic Hall. It’s not easy to think around Sothis, but she has a few years of practice under her belt, and there are conversations best saved for never. Never ever _ever._

Sothis scoffs at her and flits away, and she is granted that small mercy.

It’s a beautiful place. Despite the soaring arches and towering domes, the warm clay exteriors and colorful roofs make the great lawn more approachable than she would have expected for the oldest and greatest university in Fódlan. Flowerbeds spill over with summer blooms of every color, and situated at the foot of an enormous lily pond is an enormous greenhouse, the intricate glass-and-copper structure as awe-inspiring as the ancient cathedral.

(Molinaro Greenhouse, she thinks a moment before spotting it on her map. But then the original 24 buildings were each named for the infamous class of 1180, no matter their allegiance.)

It’s a curious mix of warmth and majesty, and she likes it.

(But that does that mean she built it?)

Eventually she stumbles over to Dominic Hall, plopping down on the bench where Dr. Flynn suggested they meet. She keeps opening and closing her hands, jiggling her legs. This isn’t like her and she’s not sure how to handle it.

“Miss Eisner? I am Dr. Cecily Flynn, Acting Provost for the University. It is… truly wonderful to meet you in person.”

She sounds as if this is some great honor, but Byleth’s heart sinks. She hadn’t realized until this moment how much she expected to Rhea again, and this…

…is definitely not Rhea.

Dr. Flynn is a slim, petite woman with soft, peacock-blue curls flowing over her shoulders, and eyes of the same dark color. She feels familiar, but there’s something _off_ about her face, something Byleth can’t articulate. Still, there’s an infectious warmth in her manner, and the sparkle of her eyes isn’t dimmed by the wariness lurking below.

Probably a nice person. She might very well like her. Hell, she might even have known her. It’s just that she didn’t realize, until the moment after that moment, how very much she _wanted_ to see Rhea again. Despite everything that happened, and everything that didn’t, Rhea was… consistent, in a way, and her presence here and now would have ended the war inside her own skull, the part of her that plays at being Byleth with Sothis, and the part of her that quietly reminds her that the evidence is mounting she might have to start taking this shit seriously.

(That part of her is pure Soph, and it’s also advising her to get the fuck out of dodge before she gets in too deep. Byleth persists; Soph’s the one with keys to two safehouses and five fake passports stashed with twenty grand in a safe-deposit box under a sixth name.)

“Uh… hi?” She’s not really sure what to say or do here. Being on this campus already throws her for a loop, and not seeing Rhea takes her for a fresh spin. Any more and she might throw up in a flowerbed.

“Yes, um, hello,” Dr. Flynn says, her smile already beginning to crack. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me. Their Highnesses and Miss Ethon speak quite highly of you.”

There’s a long pause. It occurs to her that Dr. Flynn’s waiting for her to respond. She does the first thing she can think to do: she gives Dr. Flynn a thumbs-up. Dr. Flynn eyes her skeptically, and Byleth resists the urge to smack herself in the forehead. “So, um…” She kinda hates Dr. Flynn right now for leaving her hanging. “What’s up?”

“Oh...yes.” Dr. Flynn’s voice is pleasant, even despite the shadow crossing over her expression. “Have you ever been to the campus before?”

 _I saw myself overseeing its construction_ isn’t a good response, so she shakes her head.

“Oh!” she brightens, gesturing to the square. “Then I must give you a tour! This place is very dear to me. They say St. Byleth told the architects she wanted the main promenade to make kings tremble, yet the humblest student would feel at ease. I like to think she succeeded.”

Byleth’s not either of those, but… she gets it. “That’s… cool.”

“Yes,” Dr. Flynn agrees, uncertainty rising on her face. “Cool. Come, let us start with Dominic Hall… ”

* * *

She couldn’t ask for a more enthusiastic or well-informed tour guide than Dr. Flynn, who chatters with such passion about the University that Byleth only has to inject the occasional acknowledgment. Walking helps conceal her inexplicable restlessness, and even with the sunlight trying to bore a hole through her skull, this feels easy. Enjoyable. Familiar?

Her trouble starts when she gets to Aegir and Gloucester Halls, two of the most ornate on campus. Dr. Flynn’s gaze is wistful as they walk over the bridge that carried over the campus stream. “What do you know of the Aegir School for Government, Miss Eisner?”

_I know what it’s like to kill Ferdinand von Aegir. I know Dorothea’s eyes never shined as bright again after she tore through Ferdinand’s body with a Thoron bolt. I know Lorenz burned him alive and wept like a child through the rest of the battle and weeks after. I know Ferdinand ran his lance through Lorenz’s gut to save Dorothea. I know Areadbhar sliced through both of them as my back was against the bridge rail, while I calculated whether I would survive a fall into the Airmid._

_I know what it’s like to watch the blood pour from his mouth and I know the sound of his screams as his flesh cooks inside his armor._

“Nothing,” she answers.

Dr. Flynn hums. “The Aegir School is our politics and public policy school. We also conduct research in several fields, helping leaders all over Fódlan and elsewhere craft effective domestic, international, and economic policy. Of our programs, our most famous is the St. Cichol Fellowship: a one-year intensive teaching the best and brightest of Fódlan about continental and global diplomacy initiatives. In turn, they write a thesis analyzing a current global security issue and proposing a solution. Many of those proposals end up significantly informing future security policy in their respective nations.”

 _This is it,_ Byleth realizes. This is the modern era’s answer to Garreg Mach Officer’s Academy.

It sounds like a big improvement over the original Officers’ Academy curriculum. Less “kill these ‘enemies of the goddess’ so you never forget we have your country’s balls in a vice grip” and more “think critically about global stewardship.” That’s a nice idea.

“Do you believe it?” Sothis asks.

_Hell no._

“Some things truly do never change,” Sothis says.

She looks at Dr. Flynn, who is clearly waiting for another response. She’s not sure why her brain settles on finger guns, but it does. Dr. Flynn’s smile shrinks another fraction. Her eyes shine with a sort of solemn disappointment that Byleth finds uncomfortably familiar; something not of this life, but from crackling fires stoked by the dead grass that surrounded Garreg Mach for miles, an empty space of a second where a very different girl coughed blood into Byleth’s face before her grief, like everything else in her eyes, faded away. A man’s scream in her ears.

_It couldn’t be._

Could it?

Byleth studies Dr. Flynn again as she chatters along. “The program was founded in 1935 in conjunction with the founding of the New United Fódlan Coalition—”

Makes sense; the 1920s were called the War Decade for a reason. Duscur and Faerghus, Faerghus and Adrestia, Adrestia and Hyrm, Gloucester and Almyra, Almyra and Albinea, Faerghus and Adrestia _again_ , Almyra and basically the entire Leicester bloc as a proxy for not engaging Faerghus directly… a big old mess. She can feel Sothis scraping around in her brain trying to keep up, and getting frustrated at the many gaps. So sue her for not having an encyclopedic knowledge of every war on a continent she’s barely lived on and could mostly be summed up as “Faerghus and Almyra being pissants over oil and mining ventures while trying to not plunge their respective continents into total war.”

“You could have just said that,” Sothis hisses in the back of her brain.

_You could have waited until later when I could just quicky this for you._

“—we make an effort to enroll a diverse group, as we see global leadership potential not just in politics or business but in technology, medicine, even art and music—”

Shit, Flynn’s still talking. No, now she’s not. There’s another pause and expectant look. Why does she keep being expected to talk?

“Cool,” Byleth finally offers. Why is outside so bright? The sun is the worst.

“I want to show you something.” Dr. Flynn smiles that mysterious smile of hers and beckons Byleth to follow.

They traipse through the campus for a while, quieter than usual due to summer sessions recently ending, leaving only a smattering of grad students around at the moment. The building they approach is at one of the edges of the campus, butting into the city proper that sprang up around it. _Victor Hall_ , Byleth dredges from her memory. The fine arts building.

Victor Hall, however, is a small piece of a far larger, newer building complex. _Newer_ is a relative term here; the Victor Museum was built during the height Faerghan Steel Age over 200 years ago, with all the lurid flourishes that era’s architecture spawned. (Also, it’s technically the Galatea Family Museum of Art, but if they actually changed the name of everything in Fódlan that had been funded by the Galatea Family Foundation, they’d have to rename half the damn continent.)

(And there goes Sothis scrabbling in her brain again. She can practically feel Sothis’s eyebrow raise at _that_ reversal of fortunes.)

Despite the florid exterior, the interior is clean and sparse; pale gray marble and whitish walls with the sort of soft lighting that makes the colors of the art pop from the walls. Before she realizes it, they’re in a closed wing of the second floor of the East Building, sliding past armed guards with a cheerful wave and a whoosh of Dr. Flynn’s key card. One of the signs she spots identifies this as a coming exhibition titled: _From the Ashes: Deconstructing the “Savior King” narrative through the art of the early post-unification era._

So this is going to suck.

( _Dima hated being called that anyway,_ and then Byleth has to shake off that errant thought and shove it back in her “not today and probably not ever” drawer.)

“Here we are,” Dr. Flynn says too brightly. She’s watching Byleth carefully again, as if this is some kind of test.

If it is a test, well…

_…shit._

Byleth widens her stance to steady herself, tipping her gaze over her hangover sunglasses as she forces herself to look. They’ve done a remarkable job with the preservation. The colors are almost as vibrant as the last time she hallucinated having seen it.

“I assume you’re familiar with Ignatz Victor’s ‘Battle of the Eagle and Lion’?” Dr. Flynn asks in a curiously neutral voice. “It’s almost as famous as ‘The Assumption of Saint Seiros.’”

Yeah, she’s _familiar._ Byleth gives Dr. Flynn a jerky nod.

Dr. Flynn, awful person that she is, starts chattering on in complete disregard for Byleth’s comfort. “Obviously as a historical record it has untold value, as it’s one of the few depictions of Saint Byleth, the Savior King, Emperor Edelgard, Nader VI, and their lieutenants during their year at the Officers’ Academy,” Dr. Flynn begins, “but what most people don’t know is that this painting is also a technical marvel. It is the first known use of a true vanishing point in all of Fódlandi art, which gives the painting an unusual amount of depth and accuracy compared to contemporary works. It predates its use by architects during the Golden Age by over a century. Ignatz... Victor was a brilliant artist. He could have revolutionized art in Fódlan. Instead he died of an infection from his injuries at Gronder.”

Byleth’s aware. She knows exactly how it happened: Leonie had ridden forward in a last, desperate attempt to parley, and approached Dimitri on his blind side during heavy fog. Areadbhar sliced through her and her pegasus quick and clean, and with her died any hope of alliance. Once the fighting broke out in earnest, Mercedes darted forward to heal Dedue, who was running himself ragged trying to cover Dimitri, leaving herself open to an archer’s attack. After watching the arrow pierce Mercedes’s throat, Byleth’s pulse bought her enough time to thrust her sword forward and take out the archer. She didn’t know it was Ignatz until she heard his screaming.

Shaking off the not-memory, Byleth made what she hoped was an appropriate listening noise.

“Victor’s work was found in his parents’ attic thirty years after the war ended, but imagine what he could have done if he had lived. What he might have created, had he not been cut down by war.”

She knows. Byleth doesn’t often trip time beyond the war, and less often in lives other than the one where the Savior King reigned, but she remembers this: a white cloth, an anxious smile, and an unveiling of the companion to his ‘Battle of the Eagle and Lion’ painting, ‘The War at Gronder.’ It was magnificent, a true masterpiece. Byleth told him so, then asked him to please cover it again, because she could not bear to look.

“Listen to me, prattling on,” Dr. Flynn says with a rueful shrug that makes Byleth want to projectile vomit onto her face. “My dissertation was on the Three Houses period. It...inspires a great deal of passion in me.”

Byleth glances at Dr. Flynn again over her sunglasses. Dr. Flynn tucks a piece of hair behind her ears. Rounded tips, which rules out Byleth’s original theory, but… off, like her face, which raises more questions. Has Dr. Flynn gotten work done? It would explain why she looks barely older than Byleth, despite being provost of one of the most prestigious universities in the world.

There’s another of those awkward pauses when Byleth is supposed to say something, but what? That she knows just how much potential the world lost that day? That she’d cried later over him, and Leonie, and Raphael and Lindhart and Caspar and Petra and Bernadetta and everyone else who died that day?

That if she could have done it over, she still would have still killed him to save Mercedes?

That in a life Byleth never lived, it was Annette who fell so Ignatz could preserve the memory of that terrible day?

Byleth goes with, “Cool,” and she flinches inwardly at the disappointment in Dr. Flynn’s eyes. Like she failed that unspoken test.

"Perhaps you should take this a bit more seriously?" Sothis murmurs in the back of her head. She's far less snarky than usual, which would set off alarm bells if Byleth's brain weren't already at five-alarm fire.

Whatever. Destiny, right? History repeating itself and all that junk.

“Why don’t we return to my office.” Dr. Flynn’s voice is cool, and she deliberately keeps her face turned away from Byleth as they begin the long, silent trip back to Dominic Hall.

* * *

Dr. Flynn’s office still lists her as the Associate Dean of the Aegir School for Government. At the end of the hall is a closed door with the name Rhiannon Conway, PhD in bold letters. “The current provost?” Byleth asks.

Dr. Flynn’s jaw tightens. “Currently on sabbatical.”

Byleth makes a note to look up Dr. Conway later. The office is done up in soft pastels with a pink chenille couch, but the artwork is generic and provides few clues about its occupant’s personality. She does spot a couple photos of Dr. Flynn at her PhD commencement, and another of her on a fishing trip with a man in his late 30s with the same coloring and _off_ look to his appearance.

“Older brother?” Byleth guesses.

Surprise flickers across Dr. Flynn’s face. “Uncle,” she replies, voice still cool.

Huh. Either Byleth’s hunch is wrong, or things got worse, not better in the last 850 years. “Looks young enough to be your brother.”

“My family ages well.” Dr. Flynn sits down at her desk, opening the file there. “I understand you applied to the Ordelia Metaschool’s PhD program last year.”

“Yeah, I think the website started laughing when I hit ‘submit my application.’” That could’ve been Sothis. Or the fact she was stoned out of her gourd at the time.

“We are extremely selective,” Dr. Flynn replies, “but it is a shame your application was caught in our auto-sorter. You were a B-level student at the Morfis Metaschool, a world-class program, with a double major in macroeconomics at a B+ level, and your supplemental essay did an excellent job explaining your unusual pre-tertiary educational background. You would have brought a perspective that most of our students lack.”

“Like the fact I’ve actually fought in wars instead of having a daddy that started one?” Byleth asks, leaning back into her chair. That came out snarkier than she intended.

“Precisely,” Dr. Flynn replies, surprisingly unruffled by the snark. “As you pointed out, many of the St. Cichol Fellows come from privileged backgrounds. We no longer live in a time when leaders are expected to die alongside their men in the field. That is not to say I wish for a return to the warrior cultures of Fódlan’s past, but when a leader does not fear for their safety, or the safety of their children, then when they send soldiers to die, they are detached from the devastation wrought upon their soldiers by war.”

Hey, Dr. Flynn has a gum tray. Why doesn’t Byleth keep more gum around? Right, because she goes through it like water. She takes a piece, and then three more, because hey, free gum. “Yeah, I’ve noticed.”

Dr. Flynn’s mouth tightens as she takes the gum. “Based on your history, and the attestations of Their Highnesses and Miss Ethon, we would like to extend an offer to serve as a visiting lecturer for the St. Cichol Fellowship this coming year. You will have full control over your curriculum—”

Byleth cracks her gum. “What curriculum? I’m a merc, not a teacher.”

“You’ll have the full support of our institution to assist you,” Dr. Flynn counters, nose wrinkling as Byleth blows a bubble. “We have literal centuries of combined knowledge on the history and political development of Fódlan, Dagda, Morfis, and Albinea. If you need something we don’t have, we have the Itha and Merceus military academies, Nuvelle and Deirdru’s naval academies, even the Kupala and Sambana Air Academies on speed dial. And since you have no home institution, we will provide you with a salary and full benefits, as well as full room and board for the year. Succeed in this, and the opportunities for you are limitless.”

The sales pitch sounds more bullshit than it did the other four times. Even the original Byleth smelled a whole goddamn rat’s nest when Rhea made it, and Jeralt Eisner raised his daughter not to ask too many questions, certain he could protect her forever. Which was fine for 1180, but this was 2027, and Gerald MacGowan had no such illusions. He taught Soph to question _everything_. Twice _._ “So what’s the catch?”

“Catch?” Dr. Flynn blinks at her. Clearly she wasn’t expecting pushback.

“Yeah, the catch.” She pops her gum again. “This is the kind of red carpet you roll out for cabinet ministers or decorated generals, not no-name mercs who impressed some high-ranked dumbasses. What’s the catch? Or _is_ that the catch?” Byleth scratches her chin. “How much money do their families give the university?”

Eyes narrowing, Dr. Flynn replies, “We truly do value your experience here, but...donations and investments from the royal families of Faerghus and Almyra only make up 3.23% of our endowment.”

She knows the percentage off the top of her head? “How big is the University endowment?”

“Sixty three billion dollars.”

“Oh shit,” Byleth says, mouth popping open. Her gum falls out with it. She picks it up off her lap and puts it back in her mouth. “Wait, what about the Ethons?”

“The Ethon Family Foundation severed ties with the university in the wake of President Ethon’s resignation,” Dr. Flynn says, “and have not responded to our attempts to rebuild that relationship since the dust settled.”

Since the allegations that put Ethon out of office turned out to be flimsy as hell, she means. Ellie also seems to move through polite society comfortably, given her acceptance to St. Cichol and her leadership dinner with Alex and Nader. “So what, you’re chasing the Ethon family’s money? Is sixty three billion not enough?”

Dr. Flynn bristles visibly at that. “We are not merely a school, Miss Eisner—“

“MacGowan,” she corrects. “ _Sophia_ MacGowan. That’s the name on my degree and on my driver’s license.” She’s not Byleth Eisner no matter what people in or out of her head toss around.

“—Miss MacGowan,” Dr. Flynn concedes, even as her eyes simmer with anger. “We are the world’s top research university, and our work at the St. Cichol School has contributed significantly to worldwide security and stability.”

“Hell of a job you’ve done there,” she mutters, thinking of the Northern Dagda DMZ’s minefields.

“What was that?” You could cut glass with Dr. Flynn’s voice.

“Nothing,” Byleth replies, cracking her gum again for emphasis. “One more question. You don’t drug test, right?”

Dr. Flynn goes very, very still. She clenches and unclenches her fists several times, and the papers on the desk flutter softly. “Thank you for your time,” Dr. Flynn says quietly. “But it seems this role may not be suited for you after all.”

Now it’s Byleth’s turn to go very, very still. “Wait. What?”

“I wish you well in your future endeavors, Miss MacGowan.”

But that’s not _right._ If this is all happening again, if this is real, then Byleth _has_ to be given this job. This is her destiny. _She has a war to stop._

“You’re kidding, right?” Byleth accidentally cracks her gum so hard even she winces. “You called me, remember? I thought you wanted me to be a teacher here! You can't not give me job!”

“I can,” Dr. Flynn counters, her face cold, “and I will. Now please leave before I call security.”

She clenches her hands into her sweater to keep them from shaking as she walks out.

Well…

_…shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: whoops.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There are fifty-eight _million_ people in the Garreg Mach major metropolitan area."

When Byleth walks out of Dr. Flynn’s office, Sothis is sitting in one of the waiting chairs with an unreadable expression. Byleth braces for the inevitable, but it never comes.

 _Come on, Sothis,_ Byleth says. _Let me have it._

Sothis looks down at her hands. “I am angry, yes, but for once I have no desire to yell at you.”

Wretched little gremlin. The one time she’s itching to go a few rounds with the goddess, she taps out. Byleth strides outside, ignoring Sothis’s attempts to match her pace.

“I am more concerned than I am angry,” Sothis explains, as if _I’m not mad, I’m disappointed_ is an improvement. “You were offered a golden opportunity on a silver platter—”

 _Pick a metal,_ she sneers. Byleth’s lip curls as she thinks it.

“—and instead you did everything in your power to drive Dr. Flynn away. I would like to understand why, given all we have seen.”

She glances around. This area of the campus is deserted, so she speaks aloud. “And what exactly have we seen? I have a good imagination. Maybe that last time was a fluke.”

“You have zero imagination,” Sothis counters, bristling. “Everything you hallucinate already happened to you. It is reasonable to assume this was a harbinger of things to come.”

Byleth laughs bitterly. “Bullshit. Three out of four of those lives I hallucinate never happened.”

“Didn’t they?” Sothis snarls at her. “You saw the river, did you not? The branches, the tributaries? In this life, you chose Dimitri, yes, but in the other branches? You chose differently, and you fought the war at others’ sides.”

Byleth blinks at her. This is new information. Then again, she’s only been willing to entertain that any of this could be real for about three days, and was unconscious for about two and a half of them. “Wait. What exactly are you suggesting? That there’s some _Crestvengers_ multiverse shit going on here?”

Sothis doesn’t answer her. Her lip curls into a sneer as she faces Byleth. “Fine,” Byleth says through gritted teeth. “Keep your secrets. That was _super effective_ last time.”

“You don’t even believe last time happened!” Sothis yells back as Byleth stomps away.

Byleth flips her the bird as she retreats. She’s still too hungover for this shit.

She keeps up her fuck-you-march until a very familiar voice interrupts the fork-in-a-garbage-disposal running in her head with, “So _that’s_ where my hangover sunglasses went.”

_Dad?_

“I assume you just came back from Dr. Flynn’s office?” Dad has a look that’s half wary, half amused, and all annoying.

“Yeah.” Byleth blows a loose strand of hair out of her face. “How’d you know about that? You promised to stop monitoring my data.”

“No, I promised to stop getting caught monitoring your data,” Dad says with a smirk, and yeah, that’s about as much as Byleth could reasonably expect given his line of work. It taught her the importance of burner phones and VPNs at a young age, so she considers it a win. “But I’m here for the same reason as you, kid. Just finalized the contract for MacGowan Group to as security liaison for the St. Cichol’s Fellows this year.”

Huh? Byleth tilts her head. “Weren’t we headed to Charon for a job?”

“Plans have changed,” Dad says with a shrug. “Caroline Coldwater’s on the University’s Board of Trustees, so we’ll get a break on the cancelation fees from her folks.”

“Still, from a professional standpoint—”

“Louie begged me to take it,” Dad interrupts her. “This place is going to be crawling with security teams butting heads between your new pals, President Vincenti and Roddy Fraldarius’s kids, the Galatea heiress, and Prince Lawrence of Gloucester. Coordinating all of those plus Helena Goneril’s production crew is going to be a nightmare, so the GMPD and the University want us to herd tigers.”

“ _Prince_ Lawrence? Does he mean Lorenz?” Sothis interjects.

Byleth grits her teeth. _We aren’t talking right now._

“Hmph,” Sothis mutters, and she retreats to sulk in some corner of Byleth’s brain.

Doesn’t matter. There’s a perfect opportunity here for Byleth to get the fuck away from this mess and prove this is still all bullshit. “Why don’t I take point on the Charon job while you’re on babysitting duty? It was just a risk assessment consult on a few labs, right?”

Dad shakes his head. “I didn’t take the job because I like blowing off clients, kid.” He glances around, then leans in, voice dropping low. “We’re not out of the woods with Fódpol. I’ve been advised by our attorneys that neither of us should leave the Garreg Mach area. I have to do something to keep MGG’s lights on until this is resolved.”

Fucking reckless, having this conversation here, but Byleth’s in the mood for a fight and Sothis isn’t cooperating. “Since when has that stopped us? Three separate dictators have issued death warrants for us and we still take jobs in their countries.”

Dad shakes his head. “Strongmen and their underlings are cheap to bribe, kiddo. Garreg Mach is the capital of the NUFC. We’re in the big leagues now.”

“Plus they’re your old bosses, right, _John Eisner_?” Byleth snaps back with more force than she intended. It’s not like she didn’t know they were on the run. Dad taught her how to make people disappear, both living and dead. It wasn’t much of a leap to see how Dad used those same tactics in their own lives.

Dad looks down, and if Byleth didn’t know better, she’d think he was ashamed. “I didn’t want you finding out this way.”

“You didn’t want me finding out at all,” Byleth corrects, “and until three days ago, I was fine with you keeping secrets. Not anymore.”

The surprise in his eyes is brief but still insulting. Then he sighs. “Of course you knew and didn’t say anything until the right moment. You’ve got your mother’s brains.” Under his breath he adds, “And her big brass balls.”

Her mother’s history is likely hiding behind the shroud Dad pinned around his past, come to think of it. Byleth never wondered about her much—there was Dad, and right in the nick of puberty, there was Anna, who’s still there for Byleth even long after she and Dad called it quits—but it stands to reason if history’s repeating itself, then her mother was connected to the NUFC and The University.

And to Rhiannon Conway, if Byleth’s other hunch is right. Which raises a whole new crop of questions because Byleth has memories of Rhea swearing never to attempt to revive Sothis again. She’d sworn it on the unmarked graves at Zanado, no less. Had Rhea broken that promise? If so, why? If not, how had her mother been reborn? Did this mean Rhea gave Dad her blood the way she’d given it to Jeralt? When had that happened?

Fuck. Now Byleth’s wondering if _maybe_ she shouldn’t have pushed Dr. Flynn as hard as she did. It’d be much easier to get answers as an employee than working from the outside.

“Besides, kiddo, I got a couple questions of my own. When you’d meet the brats?”

Double fuck. _According to the goddess in my head I was married to one and probably at least boned the other two in alternate universes_ is a garbage answer. (Maybe she should have proposed a fourway to stave off the war entirely. Then again, those three were never good at sharing.)

“Never,” she deadpans. “They were wooed by my boundless charisma.”

They both snicker and Byleth isn’t even mad.

“Seems I raised a comedian.” Dad’s voice is too bland for her tastes. “So you’re a novelty. No wonder Flynn decided to offer you the visiting professorship. The rich kids want you as their new toy.”

Okay, _that_ wasn’t cool. “It was probably trauma bonding,” Byleth says in the most even voice she can manage (one which is nearly imperceptible from her usual voice), “and they came looking for you, not me, remember?”

Another shake of his head. Dad crosses his arms. “I was an excuse at best. From the moment they walked through our door, all three of them couldn’t take their eyes off you.”

She shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe I do have a winning personality buried under all the snark and repression.”

Dad’s face darkens. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re tough, resourceful, and downright brilliant when you’re not actively throwing your life away, which is why I want you to take the professorship.”

Ugh, she hates it when Dad wraps his loving father moments in with emotional manipulation. “I was thinking I could run the Charon job remotely—”

“No,” Dad says before she can even finish.

Well that was quick. “You handed me a job just last night.”

“That was when I thought it was drunk rich kids who left their phones in the bathroom while snorting whatever the fuck it is kids snort these days. You lost client control last night, and now we’re potentially in for a world of shit, kiddo. You really expect me to trust you with another job?”

Okay, that hurt. Also, it’s total bullshit, because Dad is the one who insisted on leaving Ellie, Alex, and Nader in the car. So he’s making excuses, and Byleth knows what this is _really_ about.

He’s back on the _bullshit_ bullshit.

“I did the thing,” Byleth snaps at her dad, even glaring at him over her hangover sunglasses for a second before the sun pierces her skull with an icepick. “I went to school. I got my degree. Two of them, even. That was the deal, right? I go do normal kid stuff and if I still wanted to, I could rejoin the Group?”

His eyes shutter, and Byleth growls in frustration. _Nailed it._

When Soph was a kid, every couple years Dad would have some kind of fit about her cold-bloodedness and drag her to a child psychologist. Most of them were actually pretty chill, in Byleth’s opinion, which was nice because Dad could be pretty unchill about this shit. They would ask her questions, run their tests, and eventually tell him that while his concerns were valid, all signs showed Soph was surprisingly well-adjusted, although at least two suggested further testing for a possible autism spectrum diagnosis, given her lack of affect and weak cognitive empathy.

(Then again, the one year she’d attended a public school, the equivalent of seventh grade, a bully snapped her brastrap the first day and she broke his jaw. After a round of parent-teacher conferences and another sit-down with a child psychologist, she was slapped with a two-week suspension. On her first day back, half a dozen kids sat on the bleachers with her, shyly asking how she did it. By the end of the school year she’d taught nearly half the class basic self-defense, been invited to almost everyone’s birthday party, been asked by several people to every school dance, and scored her first kiss with a boy… and a girl… and a kid who wasn’t either. One of the rich kids threw her giant goodbye party. She’s the only person she’s ever met who didn’t hate seventh grade.)

Once they started asking too many questions about _him_ , however, Dad would drop the whole thing and they’d go back to normal. She thought he’d gotten out of his system back when she was thirteen and Dr. Delvey told Dad to “cut this shit out,” among other choice phrases, calling out that repeatedly taking his otherwise emotionally healthy daughter to therapists but refusing to follow through with treatment did far more damage than not taking her at all, as it implied that her only parental figure thought she was ‘broken’ somehow.

Dad cried into a bottle of whiskey that night but stopped taking her to shrinks. Byleth sent Dr. Delvey a thank-you letter and assumed that was the end of it.

It wasn't. It happened again, only this time she was 22 and too old to force into therapy. A job had gone south, and one of their team members, a recent army discharge around Byleth’s age, ended up dead. Suddenly Dad realized that his beloved Soph could die on the job.

(Which was also dumb, but what Dad doesn’t know…)

So he’d fired her. After several arguments, they’d struck a deal. She would go back to school, live like a “normal” person, and once she was finished, if she still wanted to join him at the MacGowan Group, he’d take her back, no questions asked. So she fucked off to Morfis, where they knew a few people they could bribe into admitting her, and managed to pull off a B+ average in two majors while doing fuckton of drugs. Probably not what Dad intended, but maybe he should’ve specified what “normal” was supposed to look like _before_ he sent her life spinning off course, because Byleth had fuck-all idea what that was like outside a television set.

Now based off Dad’s face, he’s going to renege.

“Fine,” Byleth snarls. “There are plenty of companies who’d kill to have my skills.”

Dad’s eyes flare bright. “You know one phone call from me will fix that.”

So he’s being extra ridiculous, check. “Why are you doing this? I’ve joined you on jobs since I was fourteen and suddenly you just want me to be… what? Normal? We aren’t normal, Dad, move on.”

But Dad just keeps shaking his head. “This isn’t what your mom wanted for you.”

“Well, she’s not here to weigh in, and the closest thing I _do_ have to a mom is your quartermaster, and she’d tell you to get off this bullshit too,” Byleth reminds him. Fuck, she wishes he’d listen to Anna more. Since he won’t, though, Byleth’s going to have to call his bluff. “Someone will hire me, Dad. I’m sure one of those ‘spoiled brats’ will do me a favor.”

His face darkens. “You should watch yourself with those three. Brats who can buy anything see people like us as a novelty. You don’t want to be their new toy, trust me.”

Okay. She’s officially done with this conversation. “I’m going to go do… literally anything but this.”

She hears him yell, “I mean it, Soph! Be careful!”

Yeah. Noted.

* * *

Storming off sounded like a good idea before Byleth realizes this campus is _huge._ They’ve added a lot in the past 800 or so years and now Byleth legitimately has no idea where she is.

It’s a pretty area—tons of huge oak trees, and the buildings around her were probably added in the last 300 years, so still old-timey but far more modern relative to the central campus—but it’s not uncannily familiar anymore, and Byleth has no idea how to get out. Grumbling, she pulls out her phone and checks her maps app for a quick exit. The longer she stays on this campus, the more likely something she’s not emotionally prepared to deal with—

“Oh Annie, isn’t it beautiful here?”

“It sure is, Mercie! Imagine having a picnic on the lawn…”

Startled, Byleth turns around. _It couldn’t be…_ but of course _it could be_ , as that has been thoroughly fucking established over the past three days of whatever the fuck even is her life now.

“...or maybe we could have a good old-fashioned tea party, like they did in St. Byleth’s time! Wouldn’t that be fun, Maddie?”

‘Maddie’s champagne barrel curls flutter in the breeze as she turns to the petite redhead next to her. “You have the best ideas, Amy! I think I saved some tea cake recipes on my Pinthis board…”

“You know me Maddie, always ready to—oh, hello there! I didn’t see you!”

 _Crap._ Byleth glances around the lawn, hoping ‘Amy’ might be talking to someone else, but she’s not that lucky today.

“Are you one of the Cichol fellows too? I’m Amelia Dominic, and this is Madeleine Martin. We just got into town yesterday.”

Madeleine waves shyly at her. “Hello there, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Amelia’s gaze focuses on Byleth’s sweater. “Oh, did you go to Morfis? Maddie and I were in the metaschool back at Fhirdiad. We meta kids have to stick together!” Amelia’s smile is brighter than sunshine and hurts Byleth’s eyes even more. “I don’t remember seeing a Morfis alumnae on the class contact list, but I can add you! Then I can send you a link to the synchronized group calendars I created for the school year, and oh! The Lax channel! Wait, I might have to get Ellie to add you. Didn’t she lock permissions after Sly kept adding his Kindln hookups to our channel? Or was it after the Poundr guy—”

“Amy,” Madeleine says gently, placing a hand on Amelia’s shoulder, “why don’t we start with getting her name?”

Madeleine still has the hazy-yet-unflappable calm, and her muslin prairie dress and floppy straw hat could have come out of Mercedes’s free day wardrobe. Amelia’s cardigan and swingy skirt have the same slight rumple Annette could never quite press out of her uniforms. Classes haven’t started and she’s already trying too hard.

Amelia and Madeleine are so… _not_ different. That’s what shocks Byleth the most.

The knot in Byleth’s stomach that’s been growing since Dr. Flynn dismissed her wraps around itself a half-dozen more times. “Sorry,” Byleth says, “but, um, I’m not a Cichol fellow.”

Madeleine’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s all right. We’re just happy to meet new people.”

“Yeah, we’re not picky at all! Well, unless you’re an asshole,” Amelia adds hastily. “Not that we think you are! You look very un-assholish to us!”

“I—“ They’re so _open_ , and that’s as unfathomable in this life as it was in the last. “I’m not a student at all. I’m not—anything. I should get going.”

“Oh,” and wow, Amelia’s kicked-puppy face is just as devastating as Annette’s was. “Well, um, if you change your mind, we’re staying in Varley Hall.”

“You’re welcome to drop by anytime,” Madeleine adds, voice softer still.

“I won’t change my mind,” Byleth mutters. _I already have._

Once they're out of sight, Byleth maps out the quickest way off this campus, making sure to avoid eye contact. The moment she’s back in the city proper, she spots Sothis standing on the roof of one of those expensive electric cars with the license plate CRSTBBY. (Sothis has a knack for picking out the most expensive object in an area to sit or stand upon, Byleth’s noticed.)

 _So, um…_ Byleth fumbles over her tongue as she assembles the words in her mind. It would help if the city would stop being so _loud_ for five seconds. _Okay, I may have overshot the mark a little back there. Maybe it’s time we try this whole going backward thing?_

Sothis waves a hand at her. “I gifted you the power to avoid consequences entirely, yet still you demand more of me! Your ingratitude is noted.”

Right, of course this wasn’t going to be easy. _What happened to ‘I’m concerned’?_

“I remain concerned.” Sothis bounces on the car. It’s kind of a shame she doesn’t have a corporeal form that could do some real damage; everything about that car screams ‘raging douchebag.’

Car horns blare and Byleth winces. She retreats into a dingy Duscurian cafe, mostly unoccupied save for the bored teenager at the counter, a middle-aged man in back sweeping, and two old men arguing in Duscur. Good enough.. _So help me fix it._

Sothis relocates to the countertop, poking idly at a pastry. “I do not understand why you did what you did in the first place. You were quite deliberate in goading Dr. Flynn.”

_Are you playing therapist now?_

“Someone should,” Sothis mutters under her breath. She leans down and licks a donut.

Byleth scowls at her. Even if Sothis has no corporeal form and only appears to Byleth, she pulls out her wallet and buys the stupid donut and the pastry Sothis poked. Even tacks on a water bottle since fluids would probably be a good idea right now. Then she eats the donut and the pastry because, well, she paid for them. Both are predictably stale, but at least the cafe owner behind the bored teenager stops glaring at her for not buying anything.

“So why do it?” Sothis asks, because apparently they’re doing this.

Why _did_ she do it? Byleth was supposed to get the job. If this is history repeating itself, then there should have been no way to fuck up the interview. Byleth was suspicious, yes, but she still accepted the job, no questions asked.

Which loops her back to the core issue: she’s _not_ Byleth. Byleth didn’t ask too many questions. Shit, Byleth didn’t ask _any_ questions, and Soph can’t imagine being the kind of person who doesn’t. Byleth barely blinked at destiny; Soph interrogates it until it turns tail and ran the other direction. How is she supposed to be the person who unfucks this when she can’t shut her mouth long enough to keep from fucking it up worse?

Sothis follows her internal process with growing sympathy. “It is true you are not the Byleth I once knew,” she admits, “but the Byleth I once knew was raised in a world very different from yours. If history is repeating itself, we must trust you are the person best equipped to handle what is to come.”

Right. The person who will handle Alex the fascist, Ellie the cult leader, and Nader the… both, but with a dash of technocrat? Actually, all three of those descriptions could apply to all three of them. So much common ground there. _For a progenitor god, you seem pretty chill with things that are outside your control._

“I am not,” Sothis replies in quick, clipped tones, “but being forced into the role of passenger in both that life and this one requires I adapt.”

When she puts it that way, Byleth feels a pang of sympathy. _Sorry you’re stuck with me?_

“Hmph. That was a piss-poor excuse for an apology. You are not one bit sorry.” Sothis reappears in the chair across from Byleth. Handy, since the teen was getting creeped out with how often Byleth glanced his direction. She strokes her chin. “Although you do seem genuinely repentant for your behavior earlier. Perhaps…“

After that last statement hangs for several seconds, Byleth prompts Sothis with, _Perhaps…?_

Sothis rests her cheek in her hand, studying Byleth with new intensity. “A proposal. Apologize to Dr. Flynn, and if she still does not relent, I will teach you how to swim upstream in the River of Time.”

Oof. That… is not ideal. _It could take days to get Dr. Flynn to respond to an apology if she hasn’t already blocked me on everything,_ Byleth protests, _and if swimming upstream is anything like the Divine Pulse, going back that far could really fuck me up._

“It will take a toll, yes, but the Pulse was a workaround of sorts. As we’ve established, you are not Byleth. You can access things she can’t.”

_Yeah, why is that?_

Sothis shrugs. “I am unsure, although I admit I did not have concrete knowledge of quantum metaphysics in your prior life. Dr. Essar’s lecture series was quite beneficial for creating a working model of the River of Time for you to access.”

Huh. Maybe Byleth should’ve paid more attention during those lectures after all. She might have been able to work out how to “swim upriver” if she had. It would’ve at least kept Sothis from throwing popcorn at her head.

Besides, quantum physics sounds a lot easier than apologizing to Dr. Flynn. Who honestly _does_ deserve an apology, especially if she’s who Byleth thinks she is, although Byleth’s still not sure what she wants to do if she _is_. Dr. Flynn wouldn’t be who Byleth expected to meet 850 years later, so she can only imagine how disappointed Dr. Flynn is right now.

“There is also the matter of the changes in our crest,” Sothis adds, her hand extending across the table to rest over Byleth’s heartbeat. It’s the first time Byleth processes that the otherness she’s felt all her life, her extraordinary speed and resilience, are byproducts of a crest she wasn’t aware she had. _The Crest of Flames._ The crest that stopped Byleth’s heartbeat in another life.

Not anymore. Her “heart” beats at sixty beats per minute, never more, never less. _Clockwork._ Dad told her she had a pacemaker implanted when she was a kid, but the pacemaker never prevented her from doing anything. Hell, she spent every birthday from six to twelve on rollercoasters before puberty hit her chest like a dump truck.

Somewhere along the line, the Crest of Flames… _changed_. And neither Byleth nor Sothis can pinpoint how or why, other than the heartbeat.

Yet another reason she should suck it up and just say sorry, but it’s just… not really her style. Still, she goggols ‘how to apologize,’ opens the first link that doesn’t sound like self-help trash, and still, her eyes glaze over as she reads. _I think I’m allergic to apologies._

“Consider it an immunity booster.”

Okay, this is ridiculous. _I don’t understand why you’ve got a bug up your ass about apologies. I can just rewind and get a do-over, right?_

Sothis looks away. “It is not so simple as all that. When I gifted your past self with the Divine Pulse, I did not remember myself, and thus I did not remember that there is always a price.”

A price? That’s new. _Soooo… what’s the price, then?_

Sothis swallows. “I am… still attempting to piece that together.”

Byleth groans. Great. _But the river doesn’t have a price?_

“I… believe that is correct?” Sothis scrunches her face in frustration. “This is all as confusing for me as it is for you, you know. Eight hundred fifty years ago, I granted you the last of my power and ascended to join my lost kin. You stopped the war. There is no reason for us to be here now, and yet…”

And yet here they are in a shitty coffee shop with two old Duscurian men yelling at each other.

_So you don’t want me to rewind because there’s a price to pay, but you can’t remember what that is, so I have to go apologize to Dr. Flynn even though there’s zero chance she’ll listen to a goddess-damned word I say. Are we sure I didn’t just save the world by avoiding destiny entirely?_

“Check for yourself,” Sothis suggests, chin resting on her hands. “You can use the river to follow the pathways of the lives around you. See how much time they have left.”

Huh. That’s an option? Wild.

So Byleth tries. The two old men are a good start; one of them clocks out in two years from a method of dying Byleth can’t ascertain, but seems peaceful, the other… huh. That’s… huh.

“What/” Sothis asks her, but Byleth refocuses on the teenager. Traces the river again to its end… _oh no._ With a fearful gulp, Byleth tries with the shopkeeper in the back and… _oh no no no._

This can’t be right. This _can’t_ be right. Maybe they know each other. Maybe it’s a coincidence.

Byleth grabs her bag and hauls ass of the shop, barely noticing the shopkeeper behind her screaming “bus your tray, lady!” The word explodes in a kaleidoscope of color as the river shows the flow of hundreds, thousands, millions of lives in Garreg Mach. She checks a baby in stroller and the father pushing it. A table of hipsters at the bar across the street. The buskers, the homeless, the group of high-powered executives coming back from lunch. The outcome is always the same.

_No no no no no._

Byleth traces another. Then another. Then another. She traces whole groups of people. Gritting her teeth, she imagines herself swimming higher, above the river, to see the hundreds, the thousands, the millions—

—and every time, she hits the wall. Her body almost aches from pounding her head against it, again and again.

Again, though, again, and again, because this can’t be right, _this can’t be right, there is no fucking way—_

Byleth looks at Sothis. Sothis looks at her.

It can’t be right, but it _is._

“ _Now_ will you apologize?” Sothis means it to be sarcastic, but she’s scared too, she feels the dread, the emptiness, the _void_ into which everything tumbles. Byleth gets it. She can’t be angry at Sothis for wanting that refuge.

Byleth is going to apologize. She will apologize like her life depends on it. Like the lives of everyone has ever or will ever love depends on it. Because…

“Sothis,” Byleth rasps, raising a trembling hand to face, “there are fifty-eight _million_ people in the Garreg Mach major metropolitan area.”

And not a single one of them is alive in 2036.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: Soph writes shitty apologies and googles the lords.
> 
> Yup, we're still working on this. Updates will remain intermittent but I'll keep pecking away at it. I should by next chapter also have a spreadsheet available with the present-day names of all the characters introduced into the story so far. (No middle names, renaming has been hard enough.) In the meantime, your comments are my lifeblood.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Byleth finally googles the lords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: some ableist comments.

Byleth picks up a few ounces of Failnaught-47 at a local dispensary; it leaves her with the right blend of mellow and focused to try this whole ‘how to apologize’ thing again without lapsing back into existential dread. (Since, well, the fate of millions might depend on it.) Sothis suggests she draft some kind of script, so she’s back in her bedroom, plunking down phrases that sound apologetic to Byleth. When she reads them aloud, Sothis frequently agrees to disagree.

She thinks she might be onto something when her phone rings.

Ellie. Huh. Who under the age of 40 calls people? 

Curious, she answers anyway. “This is Soph.”

“Hello Soph, it’s Ellie. It’s good to hear your voice.” Ellie’s voice is perfectly warm, too perfect. Like she did market research and a focus group to pick her vocal intonations. It should be off-putting, but it’s not. It sounds like _growing,_ in a weird, self-serious way.

Which, yeah, Edelgard was weird and self-serious, so of course her reincarnation would be too. Ellie sounds like Edelgard trying to be something more than a one-woman revolution. It’s sort of coming across as trying to be a personal brand right now, but Byleth can let that slide. The point is, it’s different. She’s more.

Almost like an Edelgard Byleth could have walked beside.

(Almost like an Edelgard Byleth _did_ walk beside.)

“It’s fine,” Byleth says. “What’s up?”

“Sorry to call, but I was concerned when you hadn’t responded to my texts. Alex and Nader said they hadn’t heard from you, either.”

“Oh, um… yeah, I tend to crash really hard after missions. Sorry about that.” Wonder of wonders, she actually does feel bad. There’d been a couple new messages from Nader she’d ignored over the course of the afternoon.

“That’s a relief to hear. Alex says hello, by the way. He cracked his screen trying to hit the call button.”

Yet he managed to send her multiple text dissertations? “How does he text anyone?”

“Voice-to-text software,” Ellie answers without missing a beat. “You should see his laptop. It’s a prototype from a Faerghan military R&D lab.”

Byleth giggles. That… sounds about right. She can almost picture the Dimitri from her hallucinations in an Oxford button-down and chinos, nervously babbling into a cell phone. The eye patch kinda messes with the look, but the hair’s closer to the same length than she would’ve expected for a clean-cut literal princely type.

“Well, it sounds like you’re quite alright,” Ellie says, her warmth notched up with precision. Like a fancy oven dial. “I hope we’ll be seeing you soon. I understand you’ve been offered a position with the University? Alex, Nader, and I will be there this fall for the St. Cichol’s fellowship.”

Her stomach drops. “Ellie,” Byleth blurts out, “how do you apologize to people?”

Wow, real smooth there. Also the worst person Byleth could think to ask. (Well, second worst. She may not have met him yet, but Byleth’s confident the reincarnation of Hubert von Vestra will still be the worst.)

Ellie doesn’t answer immediately, and if the call weren’t still ticking away, Byleth would have thought she hung up. Eventually she responds with, “That’s not a strength of mine.”

Yeah, Byleth’s aware.

“But… I’ve worked on it, and I find it’s best to be specific and do not offer up any excuses or explanations. Also, sincerity. Meaning my apologies… is the part I’m still working on,” she confesses, a bit breathless. Byleth can hear the sheepish smile and her mouth quirks in return.

“Sounds like pretty good advice to me,” Byleth says, leaning back on her bed.

“I try.” A beat. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re apologizing for?”

“Eh, I think it’ll work out okay now. Thanks.” She hangs up.

Okay, be specific, no excuses, and mean it. Byleth can handle that. No need to research or draft anything, despite Sothis’s squawking protests in back. It’s time to hit goggol for real.

It’s not a deep search—certainly not what she’ll pull from Pegasus, assuming Dad doesn’t lock her out of using MGG entirely to enforce his latest stupid whim—but it’ll give her some basic intel so she’s not completely out of her depth.

She starts with Nader, and he is, predictably, a bundle of contradictions. His fodstagram is an exhibit in decadence, curated in lush, saturated color to show off white-sand Brigid beaches, yachts in crisp blue waters, and neon-bright underground parties. Even his home shots have a maximalist approach, every inch dripping with the wealth of the Almyran royal family. The latest entry features that spa he flew off to after their little adventure, and damn, that bathtub of wine looks even better than Nader’s pecs.

It’s beautiful, if a bit generic, but Byleth follows a link to his chirper account. That, she discovers, is where Claude von Riegan shines through brightest. She’s already seen half of these in the ‘funniest chirps’ listicles they do on BuzzBuzz. Nader’s Quickypedia page indicates he’s the grandson of the current King, and that his mother had been eighth in line for the throne before the Summit of Three tragedy killed her two older brothers and their children. Up until then, he’d been raised in Derdriu with his parents, who never married, and broke up a year before Rania el Sayed was formally declared princess-apparent of Almyra. She’s held on to that title despite the notorious backstabbing of the entire El Sayed family. 

One article includes a shot of young Nader standing with two other boys at the press conference announcing Rania’s ascension as princess-apparent. All three are dressed in Almyran formal garb, but only Nader looks uncomfortable. The photographer captured Nader's deer-in-the-headlights expression perfectly. She flips to one of the glossy shots from a photoshoot accompanying a slick profile in _Knightly Men’s Quarterly._ Bet he made sure no one ever caught him off guard again.

There’s very little information about David Rogers, Nader’s listed biological father, and Byleth can practically smell the PR team cleanup. Following a hunch, she searches “david riegan hart news” and goggol corrects her search to _Donovan_ Riegan. The search displays photos of a man with salt-and-pepper hair, leaf-green eyes, and a roguish smile Byleth would know in the last life and this one. 

Apparently Donovan is Orrin Riegan’s only son by his first wife. His resumé is only impressive at the shallowest of glances: a string of (failed) business ventures, board member seats on a few of his father’s low-tier publications, and a catastrophic run for President in the Northern Leicester Republic despite zero political experience. The Quicky article mentions he’s never married. Studying the timeframe of his business ventures, there’s a fifteen-year break that would correlate nicely to meeting Rania el Sayed, impregnating her, and raising Nader with her for thirteen years before the Summit dragged Rania and Nader back to Kufa to take up her role as princess-apparent. Donovan has been thoroughly cut out of the equation.

“So this is Claude’s father?” Sothis asks, looking perplexed. “Why is this not public knowledge? Surely we are not the first to discover the connection.”

Byleth shakes her head. “It’s easy to keep secrets when your father is Orrin Riegan.”

“And whom might that be?”

“The owner of the largest media conglomerate in Fódlan,” Byleth replies. “Including Hart News.”

Sothis wrinkles her nose. “Is that the news channel that makes your father throw his empty whiskey bottles at the television?”

“Yup.” On top of that, Hart News and several of its flagship publications were notoriously anti-Almyran. Also anti-Duscur, anti-Sreng, anti-Brigid, and pro-Fódlandi nationalism. Lovely bunch those folks were. Small wonder Nader got shoved under the rug. Orrin Riegan having a half-Almyran grandson—and not just any half-Almyran, but the Crown Princess’s eldest son—would invite a lot of headache from his viewership.

Flipping back to Nader’s Quicky article, Byleth reads that Nader graduated summa cum laude with a BS in chemical engineering from the Nuvelle Institute of Technology this past spring. Curious, Byleth studies his fodsta feed again. 

The photographers and editors did a _damn_ good job concealing that most of these photos are from the same handful of events, Byleth concludes. Nader would have done multiple costume changes and scouted the locations for generic enough backdrops to give the impression he was at a different club or event every weekend, when in reality he was likely holed away studying, given NIT’s reputation as one of the most demanding STEM schools in Fódlan. The girl with the bright pink hair who frequently accompanies him changes too, although the similarities between outfits are easier to spot. She’s less diligent than he is. Her long pink ponytail is the one true constant. Byleth follows the tag link to Helena Goneril, heiress to the Haus of Goneril fashion empire and star of the reality series _Go With Goneril_ , but despite the obvious connections, some piece of Byleth’s brain can’t _see_ Hilda in Helena the way she sees Claude in Nader. Weird. Maybe it’s an in-person thing?

So Nader’s playing up the wild Almyran prince stereotype deliberately, has a secret connection to another powerful family, and still likes playing with hazardous chemicals. That tracks. 

It would be easy to dismiss him as the outsider. Yet the portrait of Nader that Byleth is piecing together is not of someone on the edges, but of someone at the beating heart, using his station and influence to loom large over pop culture. The ultimate insider. She wonders, with an uneasy knot in her stomach, how he’s going to surprise her.

Then as she skims over the tag list from his last “club visit,” she spots #crestkidsofinstagram.

_The fuck._

Confused, Byleth goes back to Nader’s Quickypedia page. Sure enough, it mentions that Nader has a Minor Crest of Flames.

“Nader has a Crest of Flames?” Sothis asks. “That is… odd. What even is a ‘Minor Crest of Flames’?”

Byleth agrees. There’s no mention of the Riegan crest, but technically crest bearing status is protected by medical privacy laws, so that’s still in the running. She clicks on the #crestkidsofinstagram tag.

The first picture is of a very pissed-off looking Fallon Fraldarius and a lanky, smiling redhead who has an arm hooked around him. The caption is barely literate, which seems about right for Sylvester “Sly” Gautier’s fodstagram account. There’s a mix of the same decadent displays of wealth she saw on Nader’s page, only with a shitload more variety. There are also strings of random beautiful people of every gender. Someone wasn’t hitting the books as hard.

There’s still that disconnect Byleth experienced with Helena’s fodsta, but some of the mystery is swept away by the “mjr gaut/mnr 🔥” in his profile description.

_What. The fuck._

Byleth looks up Fallon’s fodsta next. Old photos show he was at the Itha Military Academy before dropping out and re-enrolling at the University of Fhirdiad a year and a half later. Based on photos, Alex was in the same cadet class as Fallon; it looks like they both enrolled around 16, kinda young but not unheard of for families with long military traditions. Now Fallon’s an amateur MMA fighter; what a plot twist to learn Fallon Fraldarius likes fighting people. Quickypedia confirms he has a Major Crest of Fraldarius and a Minor Crest of Flames.

How exactly is that possible? Minor implants that provide crest-like boosters are available to consumers at the right price; almost every professional athlete, politician, and super-rich person alive has one. Still, real crests were supposed to be going extinct. So how did their reincarnates end up _more_ powerful?

“And do they _all_ have the Crest of Flames?” Sothis huffs. “How very pedestrian of them to copy our crest!”

Byleth chews on her lip. “They can’t… the River…?”

She shakes her head. “No. I feel no ripples from other forces that might attempt to manipulate the River. We are the only anchor.”

So a diluted version. Sounds an awful lot like… 

Ellie’s fodsta is _beautiful,_ a serene pastel mix of cozy warmth and not-quite-bland platitudes, and it’s clear she has a dedicated social media team polishing this thing to perfection. The religious content is tastefully done, in Byleth’s opinion, but she’s not a great judge of these things. Ellie has close to 23 million followers, nothing like Helena Goneril’s 117 million, but still a commanding influence. Higher genuine engagement too, from what Byleth can tell from a skim. The Quicky mentions a Major Crest of Flames and a Major Crest of Seiros, and (formerly) Major Crests of Gloucester _and_ Lamine. There’s a subheading in the Quicky article titled “Cancer Diagnosis & AgCorp Controversy.”

Byleth flips back to the fodsta page and clicks on a video link. It’s a clip of a one-on-one interview with Janet Laurens at Hart News, miraculously free of racist chyrons. Ellie sits with the same cool poise Edelgard did, and a necklace with a familiar crest twinkles at her throat.

_OH WHAT. THE FUCK._

“Why is Ellie wearing a necklace with the _Crest of Flames_ on it?” Sothis hisses at her, eyes narrowed to slits.

“Just listen,” Byleth snaps back.

_“—angry with your family about their decision to subject you to postnatal crest therapy?”_

An image flashes across the screen of a younger Ellie in a hospital, a scarf wrapped around her bald head. She’s attached to several machines. There are ‘happy birthday’ balloons behind the bed and her smile is wide, but very, very tired. Byleth swallows. She was even thinner than Edelgard at the height of the war.

The image fades and adult Ellie, smooth as butter, answers with a soft, rueful smile. She flips her long, brown hair. _“Not any longer. It was difficult when I was younger, but I understand now that Agata Corporation deceived the public about the safety of postnatal crest therapy, especially multiple rounds. My family wanted the best for me, and at the time, that was AgCorp.”_

 _“Really?”_ Janet is clearly skeptical. _“No resentment at all? Not even your father, the one who decided to implant you with the additional crest-growth reagents?”_

 _“I’ve spoken at length about my opposition to crest therapies.”_ Ellie smiles warmly, but there’s a glint in her eyes that Byleth knows all too well. “ _But I don’t blame my parents, especially not my_ **_late_ ** _father. Thanks to them, I also had the privilege of access to some of the best doctors and cutting-edge cancer treatments that saved my life. Many Adrestians as ill as I was risk bankruptcy—or worse—due to the lack of adequate health care in our country. That, in my opinion, is something worth being angry about._ ”

Janet’s still keeping things light, but there’s the barest edge to her voice. _“Still, it can’t have been easy for you to be so young, fighting leukemia, and acting as the public face of the AgCorp class action suit, all while your father was facing impeachment.”_

 _“Elizabeth Havelock and her family deserve that credit,”_ Ellie counters smoothly, _“and living through cancer forces you to have a different perspective on life. If anything, I’m grateful to have endured that trial, which again, I am aware is a very privileged perspective. Yet I found strength and grace I did not know I had through surviving cancer along with my father’s resignation through the love of my family and my faith in the goddess Byleth.”_ Ellie touches the necklace at her throat.

_Fuuuuuuuck._

Of course Ellie’s a _Bylean._ It’s kind of dumb Byleth _didn’t_ see that one coming.

“And what, pray tell, is a Bylean?” Sothis is clearly out of patience.

Ugh. No avoiding it now, but it’s just so… icky. “So um, there _may_ have been a big religious movement at the end of the Golden Age, and one of those movements _may_ have been about Archbishop Eisner actually being the second coming of the goddess, and it kinda… _might_ have… gotten like… several hundred… million worshippers.”

Sothis stops, mouth open, blinks, shuts her mouth, then opens it again. “Ah—huh—what?”

“I mean…” Byleth shrugs. “They’re not _too_ far off the mark, technically.”

“But that means they’re worshipping _you_ instead of _me_!”

“Technically they worship both of us as aspects of the goddess, and if that’s… not inaccurate, then what’s the difference?”

“The difference is that you are an idiot!” Sothis shrieks. “And they are worshipping you despite it!”

“Hey!” Byleth protests. “How is that any different than the Church of Seiros worshipping you?”

“It is not different! They are both wrong!” Sothis snarls at her, and wow, that’s not an opinion Sothis has ever expressed aloud before, even if Byleth sensed it both then and now.

Byleth and Sothis eye one another warily. “Should we… move on?”

Sothis inspects a spot on the carpet. “I think that would be best, yes.”

Byleth bookmarks the interview to finish watching later, and makes a note to research the Ethon Administration later. 

For now, Byleth googles “Elizabeth Havelock” and several articles pop up about _Havelock v. Agata Corporation,_ a class-action lawsuit alleging that AgCorp not only deliberately misled the public about the health risks of postnatal crest implantation treatment, they’d also performed unauthorized additional procedures on hundreds of children without their consent. Five AgCorp-associated doctors were convicted of manslaughter, but only one executive had been arrested, and his case ended in a hung jury. The lawsuit had been the real battlefield.

Elizabeth, or “Lizzie,” was the official face of the lawsuit. Her parents were the named plaintiffs, bringing the case on behalf of Lizzie and their other four children, two of whom were now dead while the other two now required round-the-clock care. They won the suit, and a seven hundred million dollar judgment, the largest in NUFC history, though the case is currently tied up in appeals.

One article includes a photo of a younger, cancer-ridden Ellie gingerly hugging a frail younger girl with a bald head, pallid skin and pinkish-red eyes. The caption identifies her as Lizzie Havelock. The Quicky entry mentions she’d kept four out of the _six_ crests she’d been implanted with by Agata’s unauthorized experiments, and also graduated with a master’s degree in applied metaphysics from Ordelia University at 16. She even managed to design and patent an improvement to IV bag seals inspired by her time in chemotherapy. In her most recent photo, Lizzie’s hair is now shoulder length and bright white at the roots with a purple ombré. 

Lysithea, it appears, is still living like she’s running out of time.

“Do we think our old enemies have resurfaced?” Sothis asks.

Byleth shrugs. “If we’re all back, why not them too?”

“Hmmm.” Sothis scratches her head. “Truthfully, all these resurrections trouble me, but I cannot pinpoint why.”

She drags her memory for her knowledge of the Agarthans. Little of the shadow war she fought with Edelgard comes back, but she does remember killing Nemesis at Claude’s side, how magnificent he’d been in the high summer sun. Gaps again when she thinks of the life she opposed Edelgard instead of walking beside her. As for this timeline… 

In this timeline, with Hapi’s help, Byleth and the Church of Seiros led raids on Shambhala and several other Agarthan strongholds about a decade after the War of Three Houses. She doesn’t remember much of the raids, only a huge argument with Dimitri over Byleth asking him to stay behind. Investigating the Agarthans and their role in Duscur had sent him spiraling. It never got as bad as during the war, but ultimately Dimitri stepped back from the investigation and subsequent raids after… Byleth doesn’t know what, but there’s a churning in her gut when she thinks of the missing memory.

All the more reason to investigate AgCorp, she supposes. But there’s someone else whose history she wants to dive into first.

She’s not sure why she saved Alex for last. He’d popped up once in the #crestkidsofinstagram tag, and several times more in both Fallon and Sly’s feeds. There’s just this… trepidation she has about prying into his life. Byleth can’t figure out how she’s supposed to feel about this person who may be the reincarnation of her past self’s husband.

(In this timeline, anyway.)

The goggol search brings up dozens of links to thirsty videos and fansites, so she starts with the Quicky entry. Major Crest of Blaiddyd, Major Crest of Flames, and… Minor Crest of Maurice? _Fuck._ What’d they _do_ to him? She is definitely going to have to investigate AgCorp. 

Moving on, she goes through the highlight reel: attended some super-exclusive boarding school, then enrolled at Itha with Fallon at 16, but took a gap year the same time Fallon dropped out, then came back and finished. There’s surprisingly little information about the gap year other than a few generic photos of charity work in Sreng, Kupala, and Hyrm. Started a tour of duty in southern Dagda after graduation, but was suspended ten months later after paparazzi leaked his squad’s coordinates and threatened the mission. On extended leave by special dispensation due to media scrutiny disrupting his service, and there’s another flurry of thinkpieces Byleth bookmarks for another day.

That’s unusual for a graduate of a military academy, even a royal one. He would owe them five years of active service and five in reserve, and even if he can’t serve on the ground, there must be other roles he could take. So why keep him on leave?

His uncle is currently the King of Faerghus, unmarried with no heirs. It’s nice that the articles about his extreme unpopularity with the general population focus on his repulsive personality and multiple sex scandals rather than the fact the accusers are all men. On the flipside, the institution overall has high ratings from the Faerghan population since a spike after the summit. Polls show Alex at a 78% approval rating, which is interesting since as far as Byleth can tell, the Royal Family of Faerghus doesn’t really _do_ anything but pose for pictures.

Well, at least he didn’t have cancer?

Actually, reading through the page’s account of the Summit of Three, cancer might have been an improvement. Photos from the bombing, a plot carried out by—Duscur separatists? the Adrestian government? secret lizard people? the culprits changed every week for a while—were gruesome even to Byleth’s jaded eyes. Alex was in and out of the hospital for almost a month after the bombing, and his father was in for another six.

Byleth clicks a link to Roderick Fraldarius’s Quicky page, and sighs when she sees that George Fraldarius, Roderick’s elder son, is listed as deceased. So Glenn died in this life too. 

Then, refocusing, she blinks as she spots the year. That… can’t be right, can it?

Another search confirms it: George died almost six years _after_ the Summit of Three. Cause of death is listed as complications from his injuries at the Summit. That’s new.

Who else is alive now?

Byleth flps back to Alex’s page and clicks on the link to his father’s page. Harold Blaiddyd, Grand Duke of Blaiddyd, is still alive, but, from what Byleth gathers, not well. He formally abdicated from the line of succession four years ago due to health issues. The Quicky page details his very public mental breakdown in the years following the Summit, and he’s now largely confined to the Blaiddyds’ summer estate on the Talitean coast. Curiouser and curiouser, his second spouse—Antonia Blaiddyd, Grand Duchess of Fhirdiad—was listed as having died of “natural causes'' a year _after_ the Summit.

Women in their early forties don’t die of “natural causes.” Byleth swallows. One of the images goggol pulls up shows a svelte brown-haired woman with violet eyes hugging a much-younger Alex tightly, bright smiles on both their faces. The woman could easily be Ellie in 20 years.

So despite the horrific death toll of the Summit (close to four thousand, with another six hundred missing and presumed dead), the voices that had haunted Dimitri most in his past life didn’t die or died much later. Which doesn’t mean there wasn’t still substantial trauma. Was it the same for Devan?

She closes the Quicky page and does a general image search with “Alex Blaiddyd” and “Summit of Three.” Then she closes it, feeling vaguely ill, but not before she spots a thumbnail of a dirty, disheveled young Alex clutching hands with a tall boy with brown skin and a shock of platinum white hair.

So Alex and Devan still met at the Summit, and at some point they’d been as close as Dimitri and Dedue. What happened since?

Several pages past the thirst content of her general search, there’s a thinkpiece from _The Conand_ from a few years back. Apparently, when Faerghus had been pushing for the NUFC to formally sanction Duscur for their role in the Summit, Alex posted an impassioned defense of Duscur to a Middle blog, surprisingly articulate and well-researched for a fifteen-year-old boy. Apparently the post had only been up a few hours before being pulled down, and Alex never publicly commented on Duscur again. _The Conand_ ’s piece was supportive of Alex taking a stand, but she dug up several more pieces decrying the Faerghan Royal Family’s “dangerous return to the political sphere.”

Byleth sighs and shuts her laptop. She should keep pushing, but something about this feels so… wrong. Ellie and Nader are clearly in control of their public faces, but judging by the bland old-money centrism of @hrhprinceofblaiddyd, Alex lost his a while ago.

So she tries a new approach. Logging into a fake account on her phone through a secondary VPN, she searches “sly gautier” and starts digging. Most of the results prove that Sylvain has taken to being a twenty-first-century self-loathing bisexual fuckboy with relish, but eventually she finds an FodTube video that uploaded a SnipThat recording from called “Can Alex Break It?”

The footage is rough and jerky, but it’s exactly what she’s looking for.

 _“‘Sup.”_ A boy with shaggy red hair winks at the camera. _“This is Sly Gautier coming to you with the first in my new series, ‘Can Alex Break it?’ And you all know who this is, especially you laaaaaaaadies, but also dudes and enbys, we respect all genders and sexual orientations being thirsty for my boy here.”_

Sly motions over to an Alex that looks… wow, fuck, he looks exactly like the Dimitri from the Academy, save for his prior life’s bad hair being replaced with a neat crewcut. The advantage of having a team of stylists dictating your every fashion choice, Byleth supposes. _“Sly, I really don’t think this is a good idea—”_

_“Oh come on, Alex, you were the one bragging you could snap a pipeline when were all wasted at Ivy’s birthday—”_

_“I had one glass of champagne!”_ Alex huffs, crossing his arms. Sly looks at the camera and mouths ‘five,’ miming bottle chugging motions. Alex rolls his eyes. 

The camera pans down, and there’s a giant piece of pipe, at least a foot in diameter, and at least an inch thick _. “This is a piece of A519 Grade 1026 pipe, which is a carbon-steel alloy that… yeah I have no fucking clue what any of these numbers mean, look it up yourself, anyway I got one and I can’t even fuckin’ lift it, man, like three dudes carried into my yard. Today we’re gonna see if Alex really can snap it in half.”_

Alex is visibly irritated now. _“I’m not supposed to be using my crests to break pipes, Sly.”_

 _“Title of your sex tape,”_ Sly quips. No one laughs. 

_“Dude, weak,”_ the cameraman says to Sly.

 _“Stop riding my ass, Georgie,”_ Sly snaps back.

 _“Title of_ **_your_ ** _sex tape?_ ” Alex says, clearly nervous he’s even venturing into making this joke, but all three of them start laughing. 

Byleth can’t help but laugh with them, even if it’s pretty dumb. Alex is definitely snarkier than Dimitri, but honestly, if you’re starting as Dimitri, there’s nowhere to go but up.

 _“But I’m still not breaking the pipe,”_ Alex says, and George mutters something Byleth doesn’t catch under his breath. _“It’s irresponsible to use my power for stupid stuff.”_

_“C’mon man, we got an audience, and I used my parents’ credit card to buy this off eMarket! They’re gonna kick my ass, so we might as well make it worth it.”_

Alex just glares harder. _“Your crime spree is not my problem.”_

_“Then do it for George. He doesn’t have any legs, so you gotta do it for him!”_

Alex’s eyes widen in horror. _“That you would dare stoop so low as to use—”_

 _“Nah, man, he’s right,”_ George interjects, and he flashes the phone camera down to show where both of his legs have been amputated mid-thigh. _“I don’t got no fuckin’ legs, so Alex, you gotta break the pipe. It’s, like, charity or something.”_

Alex is staring at both of them in total disgust. _“That’s not how charity works and you both know it!”_

 _“Sure it is,”_ George says, panning back to the pipeline on the ground. _“Like the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I have no legs, and I wish you’d break that pipe. See? Charity. Now you **have** to do it, man, or you hate people without legs.” _

_“Yeah Alex, why do you hate disabled people?”_ Sly adds with a cheeky smile.

 _“Of course I don’t hate disabled people!”_ It’s kind of hilarious to watch Alex struggle between punching them both for using such ridiculous “logic” and the guilt trip actually working.

 _“Fine.”_ Alex grumbles something under his breath. _“I’ll do it.”_

Alex’s build is still fairly lanky, the way Dimitri’s was back at the Academy, but he hoists up the piece of pipe as if weighed as much as a body pillow. He motions for Sly to step away. With a single fluid motion, he snaps the pipe clean in two over his knee, wincing slightly as he sets each piece back down. Sly and George cackle hysterically. 

_“Holy shit, dude! You did it! You really fucking did it!”_

_“That’s fucking awesome, man!”_

Alex smiles, sheepish at first, but then it broadens into real joy. _“I did do it, didn’t I?”_ he says, preening a bit as he high-fives both Sly and George.

_“Fuck yeah you did.” Sly slaps Alex on the back. “Well guess what, I also ordered an old telephone pole—”_

_“SYLVESTER JAMES GAUTIER! WHAT THE—”_

The video cuts off there, but the final frame is Alex’s megawatt smile, loose and free in a way Dimitri rarely was, even with all the tragedy in his life. A boy doing something stupid just to make a friend laugh. Despite herself, Byleth thumbs the screen.

“Are we having fun?” Sothis asks from her perch on Byleth’s headboard.

She knows she should dig deeper, find out what killed Glenn two years after this was filmed, figure out what Alex has been up to since he went on leave, but she just… wants to end it at him smiling. Looking like a fucking _person_ instead of the cardboard cutout prince she sees in most of the media _._ Looking like _Dimitri._

Which is kind of dumb. She doesn’t know this guy and he doesn’t know her. It’s dangerous to let herself imagine anything different. Also, she’s a mess in this life, and fuck only knows where his head’s at.

But Byleth thinks she can mean her apology to Dr. Flynn now, so that’s… something. Enough for now.

* * *

It doesn’t take much for Byleth to figure out which car is Dr. Flynn’s, and she decides the simplest thing to do is wait there to see her again (“Because that is not at all from a serial killer’s playbook,” Sothis says, and Byleth ignores her). This time, she wears… okay, she’s still in her cutoffs and army boots, but she buttons up her flannel shirt and brushes her hair.

Dr. Flynn has one of those tiny toy-sized cars in a bright lemon yellow and it’s kind of adorable. Byleth figures out the best place to stand to not look like she’s going to kill anyone. It’s probably still creepy, but Byleth can’t figure out how to make herself sound sorry via text and at least if she rambles in person, she can make apologetic eyes.

(Okay, her lack of affect will probably screw her here too, but she’s gotta try.)

“Dr. Flynn?” The woman’s fumbling with her keys when her eyes fly up and she shrieks, startled to see Byleth.

“Miss Eis—MacGowan,” she hastily corrects. “What are you doing here?”

Byleth scratches her stomach. Here goes nothing. “I’m, um, here to say I’m sorry.”

She sees Dr. Flynn fidget with her keys, and Byleth realizes she’s going for the mace jar attached. A flare of energy rushes toher casting hand.

“Look, I was really overwhelmed when you asked me to teach, but I should have ignored that and taken the offer seriously. It sounds, um, like you have a good batch of people coming through this year.”

Softly, Dr. Flynn murmurs, “We do.”

“Well, I’d like to help them see what war is really like, if I could,” Byleth says, and Byleth can see Sothis sitting on Dr. Flynn’s car, her head in her hands. “Look, I want to be a part of what you’re building, no matter what that role looks like. I just… kind of got in my head.”

There’s a long silence before Dr. Flynn says, “I notice you have not actually not apologized.”

Whoops. “Shit. I’m sorry. That’s all I want to say. I’m really sorry and I’ll respect whatever decision you make, but if the position is still open, I think I could do it. No, I _know_ I can.”

Byleth tries to smile but she’s pretty sure it comes across more menacing than approaching.

Dr. Flynn switches from the mace to her car key, which is a good sign. Her lips thin. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but we filled that position this morning.”

Her heart drops. _No._ “Oh, um. Okay. Sorry to waste your time. I’m just… sorry.”

Byleth turns to walk away, because this is pretty clearly blown if she couldn’t even manage to _apologize_ during her apology, but stops when Dr. Flynn calls back to her.

“We… do have an unexpected vacancy in another role,” Dr. Flynn begins tentatively. “The resident director for Varley Hall, where the St. Cichol’s Fellows will be staying, had a personal emergency and will not be returning to campus this fall. It’s a much less prestigious position, and the pay is terrible, but it does come with free room and board—”

“I’ll take it,” Byleth says, nodding. Then, “Wait, do you—”

“Please don’t ask me about drug testing again.” Then she grins. “But the answer is no.”

Byleth lets out a sigh of relief. “You won’t regret this, Dr. Flynn.”

Dr. Flynn’s smirk turns into a real smile, though her eyes are still sad. “No. I don’t think I will, either.”

Byleth watches her drive away. She turns to Sothis, who’s taken a seat on the hood of a Morfian luxury SUV. “Well,” Sothis says, “it is no professorship, but…“

It’s a glorified RA position. Far less influence than she had in her last life. Then again, with the extra influence had come less freedom to reach out to the students outside her classes, especially the other lords. As a resident director, they’d _all_ be under her purview.

“It’s a foot in the door,” Byleth replies. “That’s all I need to kick it wide open.”

“And if there is one thing you have always been accomplished at, it is breaking things open.” Sothis rests her arm on her knee, stroking her chin. “This world runs on information. Already we know so much more than we did last time. And yet… “ Her hand drops to her side. “For every answer, there are two new questions, and the stakes have never been higher. Garreg Mach alone has more people than lived in all of Fodlan during your past life. Tell me, are you prepared for what lies beyond the River of Time’s bend?”

There’s only one answer to that question. “Hell no.”

Sothis chuckles dryly. “You know,” Sothis remarks with a wistful smile, “that is exactly what you would have said 850 years ago.”

Well, isn’t that reassuring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: moving day, and many more familiar faces.


End file.
